


Fortified by Hate

by OneShotRevolt



Category: Tekken
Genre: (like everything I write), (one mention), Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Brothers, Gen, Recreational Drug Use, Set 5 years before the first Iron Fist Tournament, Some serious angst, but also a bunch of fight scenes, its Kazuya and Chaolan running about causing trouble in their younger days, lots of smoking and alcohol, mentions of canonical past child abuse, the occaisional softer moment, whilst screwing other people over and reflecting on how unhappy they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneShotRevolt/pseuds/OneShotRevolt
Summary: Mishima Kazuya and Lee Chaolan represent their father's corporation for the first time in post-Cold War Berlin. Let loose on the world after years under Heihachi's watchful eye, Kazuya and Chaolan enjoy their new freedoms until a series of disasters force them to become a united front that will test the limits of their begrudging brotherhood.





	1. Mirrors and Ghosts

The suites they’d been given were spacious and luxurious, though a little smaller than they were used to. Kazuya barely gave the place a glance over as he entered. He moved straight to the window, divesting himself of cufflinks as he did so and loosening the tie at his neck. He made no attempt to acknowledge the porter who brought up his suitcase, or the room service request asking him what refreshments he required. He did fancy a drink, but he had a greater desire not to communicate with any other human beings. It was more amusing to see the hotel staff hovering in the corner of his vision, clearly both afraid to do a poor job of attending him and imposing on him.

 

“M-mr Mishima?” the timid request came again.

 

Beyond the window was a divided city. Bright towers and humming neon, a floodlit strip of nothing, and grey dreary concrete blocks beyond. The Iron Curtain was falling and Berlin had been chosen as a home for the next international arms convention – a sign of a new chapter for globe’s most powerful corporations. In reality, this was more an attempt to grab new deals out of the hands of weakened ex-Soviet companies.

 

“Get him a double whiskey. Gin for me.”

 

Kazuya slowly drew his eyes from the window at the sound of that familiar voice. He turned to see his brother leaning in the doorway, flyaway silvery hair flipped artfully over his face, a pale, slightly crumpled suit clinging to his still-gangly body. He had yet to fill out as Kazuya had.

 

“It’s not _their_ fault the plane was delayed. You can’t go taking fate out on hotel staff,”Chaolan said, abandoning his cool pose to poke around Kazuya’s room. He wrinkled his nose and fell back into a sullen pout that reminded Kazuya of their younger teenage years, “your room’s bigger than mine…”

 

Kazuya ignored him and picked up his suitcase from where the porter had left it next to the door. He tossed it onto the bed and threw the lid open. Chaolan flopped down on the bed next to him stretching out his arms to take up as much space as possible. Kazuya spared him an irritated glance.

 

“ _And_ your bed’s more comfortable. I bet father gave them a memo,” Chaolan put on a deep serious voice that still sounded nothing like Mishima Heihachi, “ _I want the best for my sons! But make sure you give Kazuya the actual best. Everything Chaolan has has to be_ this much _worse._ ” Chaolan emphasised the tiny difference by measuring the gap with his thumb and forefinger and shoving it in Kazuya’s face. Kazyua batted him away sharply, but not before a slight smile had escaped him. “Ah! I knew you weren’t really mad. You were just messing with the hotel staff, weren’t you, sadistic bastard.”

 

Kazuya at last turned to his brother, and regarded him sprawled across the bed.

 

“Go and unpack. Get changed. Read a book. Take a shower. I don’t care. Stop bothering me.”

 

“I like bothering you.”

 

“And I like trying out creative new fighting techniques.”

 

“Oof.” Chaolan rolled into a sitting position and crossed his legs, “at least let me wait for my gin.”

 

Kazuya gave Chaolan another look, and for a moment he could see the uncertainty on his brother’s face. He relaxed his infamously furious glare slightly and immediately saw the change reflected in Chaolan’s expression. He’d always been good at reading Kazuya.

 

“Thanks!” Chaolan said brightly, and promptly puffed up the pillows on Kazuya’s bed and made himself comfortable. He kicked off his loafers and stretched out his legs, careful to avoid upsetting the suitcase. Kazuya elected to go back to ignoring him, and began tossing clothes into the hotel draws, and hanging up the shirts that needed to stay uncreased.

 

He could feel Chaolan’s eyes on him as he unpacked. Kazuya could tell from his restless movements that something was on his mind. His brother was never once for staying quiet for long, so Kazuya waited for him to spill his concerns rather than bothering to ask.

 

“Why am I here?” Chaolan said at last. There was an edge to his voice, like there always was when he felt he was being passed over in favour of Kazuya.

 

“To advise me as I secure a business deal,” Kazuya returned flatly.

 

“Why do I have to be the adviser? Why can’t _I_ secure the business deal and _you_ be the adviser?”

 

“I’m better than you.” It was childish, but they were only recently not children. It was fun winding his brother up.

 

“At fighting. Maybe. And I’m not even saying you’re definitely better at that.” Kazuya was, but Chaolan could still give him a good run, and bested him occasionally. “But what does that have to do with securing business deals anyway? Your people skills are just glaring. You can’t just glare people into signing things. That’s not how business works, Kazuya.”

 

“Works for me.”

 

“You have to charm people. Butter them up before cutting them down. You couldn’t butter a slice of bread.”

 

Kazuya raised an eyebrow at him, not deigning to give that an answer. Chaolan flipped his hair then folded his arms. There was real frustration there, under the slightly playful tone.

 

“What am I even meant to do?” Chaolan huffed, “it’s not like you listen to me anyway. Or should I just hang about in your shadow as always, wear something pretty and distract people with smiles whilst you diddle them out of their probably illegally-gained cash.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

Kazuya didn’t miss flash of hurt on his brother’s face. It was covered up with a haughty glare elsewhere before it could be exploited though. They had both learned long ago never to show any weakness. Kazuya had always found that lesson easier to drill however. Learning to hate and mistrust every authority figure in his life by the tender age of five probably had something to do with that. Chaolan had always struggled to maintain the balance between emotionlessness and the desire for recognition. Kazuya could understand that. After all, recognition from their father was the only sure means to avoid his wrath and sporadic temper.

 

Kazuya took out a set of files from the bottom of his suitcase and set them on the dresser.

 

“I want you there to observe people. To know their backgrounds and who they have history with. To know their ulterior motives and dirty secrets. To set them at ease whilst I carve up everything they have and take it for the Mishima.”

 

Chaolan shivered at the change in Kazuya’s tone of voice, but smiled. It was a hopeful smile, and just a little bit cruel.

 

“Also to get me out of social situations when I can’t stand them any longer,” Kazuya added darkly. Chaolan laughed out loud at that. “This is the secret handsign that means I no longer want to speak with someone and wish to be extracted.” He flipped his middle finger up and this time couldn’t help join in with a little of Chaolan’s infectious laughter. Chaolan’s eyes has gone all affection and gratitude at not being sidelined in this operation. Their lives were so full of ruthlessness that it only took a fraction of sensitivity to break through Chaolan’s rainclouds. Kazuya would never admit to having that ability, but the bright look on his brother’s face was a testament otherwise. “Anyway,” Kazuya continued, tossing the suitcase aside now that it was empty, “I got you off the family estate. Isn’t that enough?”

 

There was a knock at his bedroom door. As he went to answer it he saw the joviality already fading from Chaolan’s face.

 

Kazuya took the drinks from the room service waiter wordlessly then kicked the door shut in their face. He handed a glass to Chaolan then sat heavily on the edge of his bed. Chaolan held the glass between tense fingers. He crossed his legs and hunched over a little, looking smaller and younger, and reminding Kazuya of the frightened orphan boy his father had brought into his home many years ago.

 

“Thank you,” Chaolan said quietly, ostensibly for the drink, but they both knew better than that.

 

Kazuya relaxed his shoulders and downed his whiskey, knowing his body language would push his brother out of his melancholy and fear.

 

“Five days without him breathing down our necks. Longest holiday of our damn lives.”

 

Chaolan gave him a wince of a smile, the colour that had left him slowly returning to his cheeks. He sipped at his gin.

 

Chaolan talked a lot to form a thick armour that insulated him from the world. The closer one got to the real him, the quieter he got, as if the years since he’d been adopted into the Mishima family had only succeeded in growing an adult-shaped facade around a frightened child. It was a vulnerability Chaolan allowed no one else to see. Kazuya knew he was only privy to it because Chaolan was a mirror of himself.

 

Kazuya set his tumbler down and collapsed back onto the bed.

 

“What a mess,” he murmured.

 

“Us?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“I guess.” Chaolan drained his glass and set it next to Kazuya’s. He hugged his knees to his chest and glanced out the long window on the far side of the room. The sky was grey with the first fine mists of rain starting to spatter against the glass. Kazuya had folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. “I can’t wait until he’s gone,” Chaolan rested his cheek against his knees, his voice was quiet as he spoke.

 

“Me neither. It’s going to be great. I’ll be the head of one of the most powerful corporations in the world and you’ll be my personal secretary, running around with a notepad and pen.”

 

Chaolan kicked him in the shoulder, not hard enough to start a fight, but enough that Kazuya sat up and grinned.

 

“I’m being serious!” Kazuya’s eyes glittered.

 

“I fucking know you are,” Chaolan grated. He reached over to the beside cabinet to where he’d seen Kazuya place his cigarettes earlier. He tore the box open and stole one, waiting patiently as Kazuya pulled a lighter out his pocket and lit it up for him, “which is why I’m going to make sure _I_ inherit the family Zaibatsu.” Chaolan’s face was sullen as he blew out a plume of smoke.

 

“Uh huh. Right.” Kazuya’s amused disbelief sent Chaolan’s face into a deeper frown. Chaolan was brighter again though, and the ghost of Heihachi that plagued them even when he wasn’t present was finally lifting from the room. “Let me know how that goes for you.”

 

“I won’t need to let you know, Kaz, you’ll be looking up from the floor after I land the final punch and succeed to the empire,” Chaolan flipped his hair out of his face, “can we get room service to bring dinner to our rooms tonight? I really don’t want to face anyone just yet.”

 

“Nope,” Kazuya stood and flexed, entertained by how quickly Chaolan went from discussing grand plans for world domination to pouting about dinner, “we’re expected this evening. We’re meeting informally with Mr De Rochefort for dinner. You’re meant to know this: you’re a shit secretary.”

 

“I’m not your secretary, Kaz.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

Chaolan gave him a black look but left the argument. He folded his arms and tried to not look at Kazuya’s grin of satisfaction.

 

“What’s an informal meeting anyway? We’re not allowed to talk _any_ business?”

 

“Buttering but no cutting. Your chance to shine, little brother.”

 

Chaolan threw him another dirty look then swung his legs off the bed and stretched.

 

“I better go get ready. _One_ of us has to be prepared to host polite conversation and look the part.”

 

“No fishnet tanktops.”

 

“I didn’t even bring one with me, _thanks._ ”

 

“And dial down on the lurid purple.”

 

Chaolan gestured expansively to the door,

 

“Want to come and pick out my personal wardrobe, Kazuya?”

 

“You were thinking of wearing something outrageous to piss me off, don’t bother denying it.”

 

Chaolan’s face went through stages of indignation before he abruptly shut his mouth and scowled. The thought had definitely crossed his mind and gotten half way to fruition before Kazuya shot it down. He plunged his hands into his pockets and stalked out the room.

***

Chaolan had donned a white suit for the occasion with only a mildly lurid purple tie. Kazuya came out all in black.

 

“Who died?” Chaolan fell into step next to him.

 

“Lee Chaolan. Because he didn’t know when to shut his mouth.”

 

Chaolan gave him a sparkling smile as they stepped into an elevator, but immediately started tapping his finger restlessly against his arm as they made their slow descent to the ground floor.

 

“Stop fidgeting, idiot.”

 

“Make me.”

 

Kazuya gave him a look that intimated he was ready to do just that. Chaolan backed down and sighed,

 

“I was reading about this Mr De Rochefort before I came out. He seems too perfect, too nice. I can’t work out what his sinister motive is. And he does have one, I assure you. What oil baron doesn’t.”

 

Kazuya folded his arms,

 

“That’s what tonight is for. We’ll make him spill his secrets.”

 

“I like that you make a friendly chat over smoked salmon and tequila sound like a torture interrogation.”

 

“We’re not getting tequila. You’ll be out like a light before seven P.M. and then I’ll have to do the damn talking on my own.”

 

Chaolan nudged him,

 

“Look at you sounding all responsible! Who are you and what have you done with Mishima Kazuya?”

 

Kazuya glared into the elevator mirror. A swarthy bulky apparition looked back out at him, with thick, dark eyebrows pulled into a murderous scowl. He glanced away. The face in the mirror reminded him too much of his father.

 

“Need I remind you that we _have_ to secure this Rochefort oil deal? We already have the factories being built to run on it. We can fuck around any other day that we’re not talking to Rochefort.”

 

Chaolan’s playfulness died and his whole body wilted. Kazuya hated seeing him drained of his enthusiasm. He didn’t seek to reassure his brother though, some things were more important than their comfort and happiness. Most things, in fact, according to Mishima Heihachi.

 

The restaurant was located on the ground floor of the hotel, so they at least didn’t have to walk far. Jetlag and attrition in the face of their general situation had them both exhausted, though neither would admit as much. Floor to ceiling glass windows gave them a view onto a dark street lit with the sliding lights of traffic passing in rain. Inoffensive classical music meandered through the low hum of the restaurant. Tables were small and intimate, and the lighting was pleasantly ambient. They were shown to a waiting area – all low leather sofas and bespoke coffee tables. They ordered drinks then lit up cigarettes the instant the waiter departed. They spoke in soft tones, bickering lightly and passing almost-jokes between one another. The waiter who returned with their drinks asked them if they would please put out their cigarettes whilst indoors. Kazuya ignored her, whilst Chaolan said something ridiculous about it being necessary for their health and by the way they were very wealthy businessmen.

 

They were left undisturbed after that until a waiter came to inform them that their table was ready, and that Mr De Rochefort had arrived. They were stubbing out their cigarettes and still murmuring amiably to one another when Kazuya caught sight of the man at table they were being led to. The restaurant was relatively empty, it being just after 6PM German time. This left them with a clear view of the only occupied table in this corner of the restaurant. He was barely Kazuya and Chaolan’s age, heavy eyebrows, warm brown eyes, thick spectacles, with a chocolate hairdo that looked like it had come off a 50s record cover, and a grey suit that that looked like it had recently walked out of a Soviet boardroom meeting.

 

Kazuya grabbed the elbows of both the waiter and Chaolan.

 

“Who is that?”

 

“Mr De Rochefort,” the waiter supplied warily.

 

“Does he have a son?” Kazuya directed this at Chaolan.

 

“No children on record.”

 

“What is this? Rochefort’s our age? Was this on file?”

 

“I didn’t exactly… I mean it wasn’t the first thing I thought to check when I-” Chaolan wilted under Kazuya’s glare. “Only one way to find out,” Choalan covered. He broke out of Kazuya’s grip and strode towards the table. He bowed ostentatiously to Rochefort. “Lee Chaolan, pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

 

The young man pushed his glasses up his nose and beamed. He extended a hand to Chaolan,

 

“Marcel De Rochefort, the pleasure is all mine Mr…” The brown eyes faltered, “I do beg your pardon but-…”

 

“Mr Lee,” Chaolan gave him an understanding smile and shook his hand, “the name order confuses many of our business colleagues, but I like to think it breaks the ice a little.”

 

“Oh, yes…” Mr Rochefort agreed a little uncertainly. He looked up with interest towards Kazuya who was still standing a way off looking like thunder. Rochefort’s enthusiasm wavered. He remained standing, awkwardly waiting for Kazuya to approach. Kazuya just stared at him.

 

“Aaand my esteemed older brother, Mishima Kazuya,” Chaolan gave a sweeping introductory gesture, catching Kazuya’s eye as he did so and jerking his head towards the table.

 

Kazuya remembered himself and strode towards the table. He ignored Rochefort’s outstretched hand and instead gave a curt bow. Rochefort looked put out for a moment, then a dawning expression appeared on his face and he returned the bow before sitting.

 

“So pleased to meet you, Mr Mishima, I’ve heard so much about your family! My contracts were all tied up with Russian government before, but now I have an opportunity to make new friends.”

 

Chaolan and Kazuya exchanged a look. So much for no business at the table.

 

“You are Mr De Rochefort? Founder and owner of Rochefort Enterprises?” Kazuya said by way of greeting.

 

“Not quite what people are expecting, right? But that’s me.” Rochefort picked up a menu and began scanning it, mostly to avoid intimidating eye contact with Kazuya as he chatted, “I’m a self-made billionaire! Of course, it helps that I inherited a couple of million, but it wasn’t just inheritance that got me where I am today. As a high school student I put my money where it was safest,” he looked over his menu and the rim of his glasses at the brothers, “that would be investing in majority shares in Soviet oil fields and then selling it back to them, and well, the rest is history, as they say.”

 

Kazuya stared at him,

 

“So you’re the sole CEO of the enterprise? It’s all yours?”

 

Chaolan kicked him under the table.

 

“That’s right,” Rochefort smiled, “nothing as impressive as the Mishima Zaibatsu, but I like to think of it as my own humble slice of heaven. Talking of which he put up a finger and the waiter came over. Shall we get some drinks, boys?”

 

Chaolan’s face fixed itself into a smile and he placed a deliberate hand on Kazuya’s arm. Kazuya was seething at the term of address.

 

“Drinks would be charming,” Chaolan said, hoping it sounded less stiff than it felt.

 

“Shall we start with a Bordeaux? Can’t go wrong with that.”

 

“Let’s,” Chaolan squeezed his brother’s arm again and whispered to him as Rochefort ordered the wine. “Snap out of it, Kaz. You’re the one who said we needed this deal. Start playing nice.”

 

As Rochefort turned back round, Chaolan removed his hand and instead poured over the menu. He squinted at it and ran his finger down the items, struggling with the foreign language.

 

“So, how are you enjoying Berlin?” Rochefort turned to Kazuya.

 

“We arrived four hours ago.”

 

“Ah, I see. Well, I do hope you get a chance to see the city whilst you’re here. I realise this is a weapons convention, but some of us do enjoy a little culture on the side! I actually consider myself a bit of a pacifist, believe it or not. What about you Mr Mishima, I know you’re interested in purchasing oil, are you here in Berlin for anything else?”

 

“Selling weapons.” Kazuya’s eyes bored into Rochefort’s.

 

Chaolan cover his eyes with a hand.

 

“Oh,” Rochefort looked put out for a moment. Then he laughed a little awkwardly, “well, I suppose someone has to do it! We all have our little eccentricities.” He touched his tie and fiddled with the menu between his fingers. “I, for example, actually have passionate interest in the welfare of our planet and its precious ecosystems. I know what you’re thinking – odd coming from an oil magnate!” Kazuya hadn’t been thinking that. He’d been thinking about casually punching Mr Rochefort’s glasses into his skull. “But I don’t like to stop a thing like that from preventing me caring about what really matters in life, which is why 1.3% of all Rochefort Enterprises’ profits go to environmental awareness and protection agencies.”

 

He beamed at the brothers. Chaolan pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Shall we order, Mr De Rochefort?” Chaolan said, summoning his patience from a deep well within him.

 

“Oh! Of course.”

 

“I hate him,” Kazuya said, once the dinner was over and they were leaving the restaurant.

 

Chaolan gave Rochefort a small wave goodbye over his shoulder. His smile dropped as soon as he turned around,

 

“Really. I hadn’t noticed. You had such an angelic disposition all evening.”

 

“Fuck oil and fuck him.”

 

“Kaz…”

 

“He can drink it for all I care.” They entered the elevator and Kazuya punched the controls to take them back to their floor. As soon as they were alone Chaolan grasped him by the shoulder and turned him towards him.

 

“We have to make this work. Please, Kaz. Like you said, I can’t go back to being cooped up on that estate under his eye all the time. He’ll never let us represent the Zaibatsu again if we screw this deal up.” Chaolan set him with desperate eyes. Kazuya looked away from them quickly.

 

“He won’t send you back to the estate.”

 

Chaolan withdrew his hand as if stung,

 

“What… what do you mean?”

 

“He’s got plans. For you. America. Universities. Turning you into a proper businessman. Learning about his rivals on the other side of the Pacific.”

 

Kazuya could see Chaolan was trying to school his face. It was almost convincing but his bottom lip trembled.

 

“I… I see. And…. And what about you?”

 

“I am to stay and perfect the Mishima Style Fighting Karate under him.”

 

“I see,” Chaolan said again. Kazuya could hear all the hurt in his voice.

 

The elevator _bing_ ed as it reached their floor. Kazuya headed straight for his room.

 

“You’ll have to train with him alone then? Just the two of you?” Chaolan said to his back.

 

Kazuya turned and gave him a signature half smirk,

 

“Worried for me, Chaolan?” Chaolan didn’t answer. Kazuya grinned in the face of that telling silence. “You should worry for the old man, not me.”

 

Chaolan dropped his eyes, not sharing the humour,

 

“Goodnight, Kazuya.”

 

Once the door shut behind him, Kazuya’s pretence fell away also. He balled his fists up, breathing hard through his nose. A strand of his hair had escaped the copious amount of gel he’d slathered on it. He glanced into the mirror to fix it. When he saw his reflection his lip twitched. He punched his fist straight into the glass. The mirror shattered into silvery fragments that tinkled as they fell. This time when he looked down, he could only see his own face in the disparate shattered shards spread across the floor.


	2. Safety in Numbers

Chaolan lay on his stomach on the bed in silk lilac pajamas. He had a side light pulled next to him and a pair of tweezers in his hand as he carefully pulled flecks of glass out of Kazuya’s knuckles. Kazuya sat upright with the pillows behind him, in baggy comfortable trousers, with an itinerary Chaolan had drawn up in hand.

 

“I can’t believe you slept with glass in your hand.”

 

“I can’t believe it took you so long to draw up a plan for the week.”

 

Chaolan squinted and turned his brother’s hand toward the light trying to catch sign of any glints of shards remaining.

 

“The Expo doesn’t start until noon, want to explore the city till then?”

 

“No. I want to train. I saw there’s a gym here. We can get a few hours in before lunch.”

 

“ _We?_ What if _I_ want to explore the city?” Chaolan ran his thumb over the injured knuckles, checking for any lasting edges of glass. Kazuya gave a slight hiss at the contact. “All done. Maybe take out your anger on something softer next time.”

 

“Or someone, perhaps.”

 

“Very funny,” Chaolan stood and disposed of the napkin filled with winking bloodied glass. He briefly looked at the tweezers before tossing them in the bin too. He meandered to the en suite bathroom and washed his hands.

 

“Use your own bathroom,” Kazuya said without looking up.

 

“Thank-you, Chaolan, for removing the hotel mirror from my hand. I, Mishima Kazuya, was an absolute fool to pick a fight with such a superior opponent.”

 

Kazuya gave him a bored look then beckoned him over. Chaolan approached warily. Kazuya turned the itinerary so they could both see it.

 

“The fuck is this?”

 

Chaolan leaned closer. _Mishima Zaibatsu Presentation_ was scheduled for two days time.

 

“Slot for a presentation. Raising the profile of the corporation, saying how great our weapons are, you know the drill.”

 

“Am _I_ expected to do this?”

 

“Well, you’re the one with the Mishima name,” Chaolan said, just a fraction bitterly. “Anyway, you’ve done loads of stuff like this. Father is always taking you off to soirées across the globe.”

 

“Yeah to stand at his side and shut up.”

 

“You mean you haven’t spoken in public before?”

 

“Of course I have,” Kazuya snapped, snatching the itinerary away, “just… not in front of an audience.”

 

“That _is_ what’s entailed by public speaking, Kaz,” Chaolan threw up placating hands when Kazuya snarled in response to that. “But it’s fine. We’ve got a couple of days before then. I’ll write up a list of things for you to cover, then you can practice in front of the mirror – oh wait.” Chaolan gave him a nasty smile.

 

Kazuya leapt up from the bed. He’d been listening attentively before that last jibe. He reached a hand to grab at his brother, but Chaolan darted out the way of his grasp.

 

“I’m going to get dressed. See you for sparring soon?” Chaolan blew him a kiss and backed out the door whilst he still could.

 

Kazuya growled in frustration and threw the itinerary onto his bed. He ran his hand back through his hair and looked up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and breathed more slowly. He grabbed a flattened sportsbag from out of his suitcase and threw in a few items: loose clothing, sparring gloves, a towel, a bottle of water. He glanced back once at the itinerary before putting that in too.

***

Kazuya stopped and stared when he opened the door to the gym. Chaolan put his chin on his shoulder to see what the fuss was about.

 

“Oh.”

 

The room was filled with treadmills, weight lifting equipment, rowing machines, benches and bars – all high tech and emitting faint lights and beeps.

 

Chaolan could feel Kazuya’s already frayed temper mounting.

 

“I’ve got this, don’t worry.” Chaolan clapped him once on the back then set off quickly to the hotel reception desk. He leant on the polished wood and placed a hand on his hip letting the violet tank he was wearing show off his body. He pushed a pair of sunglasses up into his hair. “Hey there,” he smiled at the receptionist, “Mr Lee from room 1204. Does this establishment by any chance have a ballroom?”

 

The receptionist looked at him from over the top of red rimmed glasses,

 

“A… ballroom, Mr Lee?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“There’s a ballroom on the fifth floor, but it’s in use this evening, sir.”

 

“Ah, excellent! That means it’s free presently. I’d like to hire it for this morning. Would about four-thousand deutschmarks cover it?”

 

“I… what?” The receptionist blinked at him, “I’d need to check but that might be possible-”

 

“Good man, bill it to my room. Fifth floor you say?”

 

“Y… yes,” The receptionist was halting and flustered. Chaolan gave him a wink and a thumbs-up then returned to Kazuya.

 

“Follow me, I’ve got us a place to train.”

 

The ballroom was lit by French windows that allowed the sunlight to pour in. An enormous wooden parquet floor stretched gleaming before them. A narrow balcony ran about its edges complete with an ornamental parapet, giving the place a grand, imposing presence.

 

“Better?” Chaolan smiled knowingly.

 

Kazuya made an inarticulate noise of assent and dropped his sportsbag down to one side. His stiff shoulders finally relaxed as he breathed and took in the space. It wasn’t quite the dojo back home, but it was a good deal better than that cramped hotel gym. He was glad he’d manage to persuade their father to let Chaolan come with him on this trip.

 

He inspected his raw knuckles briefly, then pulled on his red sparring gloves, binding them tightly to his wrist. He pulled off his shirt, then threw a couple of light punches. Chaolan was already stretching in front of an enormous mirror running down the length of one of the walls. Kazuya joined him.

 

“No punches to the head,” Chaolan said, looking at him via the reflection, “I don’t want to go to the Expo with a black eye.”

 

“Have a little faith in yourself,” Kazuya gave a cold smile, “I’m sure I’d never be able land such a move. No need to change up the rules over such slim possibilities…”

 

Chaolan flashed him a sullen look. The black eye Kazuya had given him last week had only just gone down in the last day or two.

 

“No punches to the head,” he repeated. “There’ll be press photos.”

 

Press photos that their father would end up getting hold of. And more help them if they didn’t look professional in the public eye.

 

“No punches to the head,” Kazuya conceded.

 

Chaolan smiled, stretched once more, then raised his fists.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Kazuya lifted his guard, eyes fixing on his brother. Chaolan’s face changed from playful to serious in an instant. He stepped forward, testing the distance between them. Kazuya matched his footwork with a step to the left, piercing stare hunting for the first opening. Chaolan pulled his guard a little closer, drawing his upper body back slightly. He kept his legs planted though, maintaining the illusion of distance. He tried not to let his smile show when Kazuya took a predictable step forward. Immediately he shifted his weight, and was in Kazuya’s face, his left punch took care of his brother’s guard, fast enough to make Kazuya blink, then his right followed up and hit Kazuya squarely in the chest. He heard the air expel out of his brother, and afforded himself a split second grin at the first hit. He realised his mistake a moment later. With the rule they’d enforced on no punches to the head, what would have been a stunning blow to the jaw was now just a straight punch to the chest. The split second he might have had in an ordinary fight was stolen from him. He heard more than saw Kazuya’s fist. It came in sharp straight to his chest – first one, then two, three, four, Chaolan brought his forearms up to block the blows but Kazuya ploughed straight through them. Five, six, seven, eight. Chaolan dropped low and threw himself backwards, righting himself and pulling free of striking distance.

 

“You bastard,” he spat, heaving for air. “You let me make the first hit because you knew you could take it. If I’d punched you in the head-”

 

“They were your rules, Chaolan,” Kazuya smirked.

 

Chaolan breathed heavily, chest stinging from the blows, as he tried to regain his shattered posture. Kazuya saw him buying time and came in again.

 

Kazuya broke the distance between them with a front kick. Chaolan blocked it with one of his own and immediately raised his guard, knowing Kazuya always used that open to bring in a flying punch. The punch came and Chaolan side stepped it, knocked it aside and countering with one of his own. Kazuya brought his left arm across his chest, clearing the space in front of him before bouncing off the blow to strike his fist into Chaolan’s chin. He managed to hold most of the force back from it, but Chaolan’s face still burst into a glower at the breach to their rule. He dropped low and swept Kazuya’s feet from under him, pulled his leg back into chamber lifted it high then dropped it onto his brother. Kazuya crossed his forearms and caught the kick between his fists. He grabbed Chaolan’s foot and spun it, throwing his brother to the ground. Chaolan leapt up, careful to keep the distance between him as he regained his footing.

 

“No strikes to the head,” Chaolan huffed through laboured breathing when he had a moment.

 

“I pulled it short.”

 

“It was still a strike to the head!”

 

“I think an axe kick to the head also counts as a strike to the head, Chaolan.”

 

“Not my fault your head was somewhere it shouldn’t have been. You were lazing around on the floor.”

 

Kazuya’s eyes twinkled,

 

“I’ll be sure to remember those amended rules.”

 

Chaolan hesitated,

 

“Kaz, wait. That was my bad. I’ll be more careful.”

 

Kazuya said nothing, his footwork began to circle Chaolan.

 

“We good?” Chaolan asked.

 

“We’re good,” Kazuya returned, though his eyes were already dissecting Chaolan’s guard.

 

Chaolan watched him warily, keeping Kazuya in front of him. Chaolan closed the distance between them with a side kick, stamping his foot towards Kazuya, forcing him to drop his guard to block. Chaolan planted his foot then came in with a powerful kick carving in from the side. It connected with a _thwack_ straight into Kazuya’s ribs. Kazuya gave a grunt, pulling his guard compact as he struggled to catch his breath. Chaolan took a step back, choosing not to press his advantage – the closer territory always favoured Kazuya.

 

Kazuya regarded him from under heavy eyebrows. He was breathing hard. A cold smile curled onto Chaolan’s face. He could see a temper starting to flare in his brother’s eyes. Kazuya was never so rash as to let his anger consume him, but Chaolan knew the fractions between Kazuya’s moves would be that little less premeditated. Like just now for instance, when his mind would see this as another reset and a chance to find an opening to pay Chaolan back for that solid kick to the chest.

 

Chaolan slid half an inch forward pulled his knee up as if for a front kick, but then snapped it high at the last moment, unleashing a blaze of high head kicks that Kazuya had to block with both arms. Chaolan pulled his leg down. Then came through with his back leg so high and close that Kazuya didn’t have a chance to see it. He caught Kazuya’s head and locked it behind his knee, pulling his brother down. He slid his foot to the other side of his brother’s face with masterful control, and used the full momentum of both their bodies to swing back the other way and hurl Kazuya to the ground.

 

This time he pressed his advantage. Kazuya only stopped him from laying a backfist into his face by propelling a punch straight into Chaolan’s gut as he drove himself off the floor. There was a livid look in Kazuya’s eye now, all hate and rage. Chaolan darted back, but Kazuya matched him. He had to pull his entire body out the way of Kazuya’s punches as well as blocking. His brother was putting enough force behind each attack now that Chaolan wasn’t sure flesh and bone would be enough to stop those blows landing. Kazuya caught him in the chest with a knee, then a straight jab cross into his chest, then a second knee, and suddenly the string of punches were blinding Chaolan’s vision and it was all he could do do keep his guard hugged close, trying to fend off the worst of the damage. Chaolan took a full uppercut to the chest that lifted his feet clean off the ground and straight into a round punch to the face that floored him.

 

He saw black for a moment. His vision flickered between black and white like a television between channels. He could hear his heartbeat in his own skull. It was pounding so loud that the world felt like it was pulsating. The was a familiar taste of blood in his mouth. A shadow fell across him and he curled up defensively, not yet able to bring his body to do anything else.

 

“Chaolan?”

 

Chaolan blinked. He squinted up. The silhouette of his brother was above him, framed by the onslaught of light from the ballroom windows.

 

“You’re bleeding onto the hotel floor.”

 

“Right, sorry,” Chaolan said automatically. His voice sounded far away. He sat up slowly, a dazed expression on his face.

 

“Fuck,” he heard Kazuya say. Then suddenly Kazuya was in front of him, face all sharp angles and dark shadows. Chaolan instinctively pulled away from him. “Come here,” Kazuya took his face in hand. Strong fingers gripped Chaolan’s chin and turned his cheek. “Shit,” he heard Kazuya mutter.

 

“Another beautiful black eye?” Chaolan inquired wearily. His senses were slowly returning to him as his breathing and heartbeat slowly steadied.

 

“Why did you launch into all those high kicks like that? You knew I’d respond in kind.”

 

“Ah,” Chaolan winced as pain somewhere, possibly everywhere, sparked through him, “saw a chance that was too good to pass up. Just had to… had to do it.”

 

“It was a pretty good move,” Kazuya conceded, “definitely wasn’t expecting it to be a throw. But the press this afternoon…”

 

“It was worth it,” that came out just a little terse.

 

Kazuya didn’t press him. They both understood. When they fought, the rest of the world faded, and everything became an outlet for hidden bottled up things all stifled inside. Chaolan had seen a chance to beat him and taken it. That was all that mattered. That was all that ever mattered.

 

Kazuya stood and extended a hand down to him. That was never permitted in the dojo at home. Chaolan took it gratefully and was pulled up. He wavered on his feet for a moment, keeping hold of that hand for support until he was ready.

 

“All good,” he gave a weak smile. There was still concern in Kazuya’s eyes. Chaolan gave him a thumbs up, “a prime opportunity to try out my excellent new sunglasses this afternoon!”

 

Kazuya’s frown was still in place but it at least lessened a little. Chaolan wondered how far he could push that worry.

 

“To make up for beating up my beautiful face, can you get me hot riceballs for lunch and can they come to my room so that I don’t have to move from the shower for the next hour?”

 

Kazuya glared at him. Like he was actually contemplating that request.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Really?” Chaolan couldn’t quite believe his luck, “wow. You must have messed me up really bad. Guilty Kazuya is my new favourite kind of brother.”

 

“Don’t push it. You got what was coming to you.” Kazuya’s nose wrinkled in pain as he stepped towards the door. His hand went to his side where Chaolan had landed a full roundhouse kick. Chaolan gave him a smirk but the movement made his head ache. He touched his fingers to his temple. His left eye was starting to water and narrow as the skin around it puffed up. Chaolan sniffed and dabbed his fingers at it, feeling the bruising skin as it rose.

 

“Ow,” he said as he poked it, “ow,” he prodded it again to try and get a feel of how big it was. He meandered over to the wall-length mirrors. A huge purple welt claimed the left side of his face, and was intent on blowing up to obscure his vision. “Hey it’s going to match the tie I was thinking of wearing this afternoon!” He looked back over his shoulder and enjoyed the slightly guilty expression seeping back into Kazuya’s features.

 

He walked back to his brother and pulled a bottle of water out of his bag. He drank deeply, then poured a liberal amount on his face, letting it seep down his neck and already-sweat drenched clothes.

 

“You’ve made a fucking mess of this ballroom.”

 

“Eh, someone’ll clear it up. I offered them four-thousand marks to rent the place.”

 

Kazuya’s eyebrows raised,

 

“ _How_ much? That’s Zaibatsu money we have to account for!”

 

“Kaz, it’s like a speck in the ocean. Father’s not going to know.”

 

“He’s not going to know because I’m going to go down there and knock it off your bill. This room should be provided free of charge after that lame excuse of a gym.”

 

“You can’t just go ask for a refund.”

 

“I won’t be asking.”

 

“Drama queen.”

 

“Go get ready or no hot riceballs.”

 

“Okay! I’m going! For future reference, positive motivation works really well on me, much better than threats.”

 

“ _Chaolan_.”

 

“I’m going!”

***

Chaolan let the hot water beat down on him. He noticed new bruises every time he cracked an eye open in the steam flooded room. Enormous heaving sighs expelled from him with each passing minute. He tilted back his head to let the pins of high pressure water burst again his face and caress through his hair. It had been a long, long time since he’d felt this free, this at peace. The weight of fear was so far removed from its customary place on his chest that he felt like he was breathing for the first time.

 

When he stepped out of the shower he felt like a new man. He wrapped himself in fluffy towels and shambled into his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. His muscles ached pleasantly. There were no riceballs waiting for him, but there were a half dozen still-hot spicy wurst sausages on a tray with sliced fresh bread and butter. He rolled onto his stomach and picked at the food, retracting his hand when he burnt his fingertips.

 

It was quiet in his room. There was a faint drum of rain on the glass and the distant sound of car horns on the street. Somewhere an ambulance siren was crying. Somewhere else a couple of cats were yowling. So different from the utter silence of the Mishima estate. His hotel room was half the size of his one at home, but it still felt too big and empty. It was sparse enough to give his mind space to think and wander and play through scenarios. His thoughts would reel through conversations, trying to perfect responses and gestures and expressions to lessen the likelihood of incurring his father’s anger. He could feel prickles of dread already returning to him. His gut was turning at the thought of returning home at the end of the week.

 

He jumped up quickly and rifled through the wardrobe until he found an oversized pastel blue dressing gown. He picked up his tray of food and shuffled out of his room. He knocked lightly on Kazuya’s door.

 

Kazuya opened it gruffly. He didn’t seem surprised to see Chaolan, and neither did he bother throwing a customary insult.

 

“Weren’t any riceballs,” he gave.

 

“These are good.” Chaolan seated himself on the foot of the bed and began eating. “You eaten?”

 

Kazuya jerked his head toward a plate demolished of everything but crumbs. A new standing mirror had been placed in the room. Kazuya stood in front of it now and buttoned a navy waistcoat across his chest.

 

“Does it go?”

 

“Go with what? You’re only wearing black.”

 

“Well, what am I meant to wear?!”

 

Chaolan stuffed a sausage in his mouth and strode to the wardrobe, he flicked through his brother’s clothes. He wiped his fingers on his dressing gown, finished his mouthful, and glanced back.

 

“Can I persuade you to wear purple?” He pulled out a violet dress shirt.

 

“I’m not wearing matching outfits, Chaolan.”

 

“I solemnly swear only to wear dazzling silver, white and midnight blue whilst you’re monopolising this part of the rainbow, dear brother.”

 

Kazuya scowled at him but held a hand out for the shirt. Chaolan passed it over, and threw a black pinstripe waistcoat on top. He sat back on the bed and finished eating, watching Kazuya struggling with the buttons.

 

“Looks good. You’re going to be amazing. So amazing you don’t need me. I could sleep for a thousand years right now.” Chaolan stretched and yawned. Kazuya gave him a face full of thunder. Chaolan winced. “Kidding. I’ll come even though my face looks like a melon. Promise me you’ll at least try and get on with people though. Would make my life so much easier.”

 

Half an hour later they were making their way down to the first floor of the hotel where the Expo was being held. They strode out of the elevator and down a corridor flush with printed signs and filling slowly with voices. Chaolan’s pace slowed. Kazuya turned to him,

 

“What?”

 

Chaolan’s face was half hidden under enormous aviators but Kazuya could still read his anxiety through it.

 

“If there have to be photos… can you make sure they don’t get the left side of my face? I just don’t want to take any chances and-”

 

“If someone comes up to you with a camera, I’ll deck them.”

 

“Kaz,…-”

 

“End of discussion.”

 

Chaolan smiled despite himself. It hurt to smile. He combed his fringe into his face more and walked a step behind his brother.

 

They strode into a long carpeted hall filled with stands, posters, people in grey and blue slim suits with white pocket squares at their breasts, waiters in penguin suits carrying flutes of champagne, journalists with press cards and cameras hanging from their necks, and too-bright lighting that immediately made Chaolan feel like he was having an aneurysm. He was infinitely glad for his sunglasses.

 

“Lets go straight to our stall. Check the buffoons haven’t put the signs upside down or set off an intercontinental ballistic missile.”

 

Kazuya smirked at his brother’s irritated tone. Crowds naturally parted around Kazuya. Some mixture of his physique, presence, and the scornful scowl fixed on his face meant paths just opened up for him. This unfortunately meant he also drew the eye of the room. Including shoal of journalists who began pressing their way towards him. Chaolan ducked his head and kept to Kazuya’s shadow, trying to flatten his flyaway silvery hair over his face as he did.

 

“We got any full face helmets that we’re modelling at our stall?”

 

“You look fine. No one can tell.”

 

“Shouldn’t have given you that purple shirt. You look suave as fuck. These cameras are going to swarm you.”

 

A genuinely amused smile cracked on Kazuya’s face.

 

“You’re much more entertaining when you’re paranoid.”

 

“You’re much more of a dick when you’re enjoying the limelight.”

 

Their stall was an elaborate three tabled affair staffed by low level Mishima Zaibatsu lackeys that neither Kazuya nor Chaolan could remember any of the names of. An enormous, dramatic poster of Mishima Heihachi was behind the desk. His arms were folded across his chest and his hair shot out of his head like proud antlers. Kazuya and Chaolan both stopped stock still, momentarily frozen by the life-size representation of their mutual tormentor. Chaolan broke their shock with a thin hollow laugh,

 

“Never one for half measures, was he.”

 

Kazuya’s light humour was gone, and a black look was on his face. They might not have known the lackeys manning the stall, but judging from the adept way in which they skirted Kazuya and gave him space, they certainly knew exactly who the brothers were.

 

Kazuya turned away from the poster and inspected the stall. A crate lay open with the latest Mishima rocket propelled grenade propped idly in its hard foam case. Kazuya turned his eye over the display, glancing over a list of everything for sale.

 

“Do we have prototypes with us of everything we’re selling?”

 

“Almost everything, Master Mishima,” one of the lackeys said quickly.

 

“I want a list drawn up detailing which prototypes we have with us. Have it sent to Lee. I trust everything we have with us is in full operational order and can be demonstrated if required?”

 

The lackey hesitated. Most weapons with them were high-grade and long range – battlefield weapons not particularly conducive to being shown off in central Berlin.

 

“They… could be fired if one had the right testing grounds to do so, Master.”

 

Kazuya’s eyes narrowed but he nodded. Kazuya beckoned Chaolan over then whispered in his ear,

 

“Stay here and sell shit. If I have to spent another minute in the presence of that damn poster…”

 

“No way you’re leaving me here. _You’re_ the one people want to meet, you can’t lump this off on me.”

 

“I’m going to go look around. Meet people. Look at neat stuff that explodes.”

 

“I’m coming with you.”

 

“Like hell you are.”

 

“What’re you going to do, punch me in the other eye?”

 

Kazuya glared at him but relented. They both slunk off, leaving the proud laminated face of Mishima Heihachi to glare down at all his potential customers alone.

 

They wound their way in and out of self-congratulatory businessmen, laughing over the rims of their glasses. Chaolan glanced at a stall advertising blast diameters on aerial missiles. This really wasn’t his kind of scene. He’d much rather be out discovering the nightlife of the new city than observing photographs of shelled out model villages.

 

“How about, for every photo we see of a bloke smiling next to an explosion, we go to one gay bar tonight.”

 

“Fuck no. Why do you want to go to gay bars anyway?”

 

“Because this is Berlin? And there’s hardly any at home? Good to get some diversity in when father’s not around. Besides,” Chaolan nudged Kazuya, “you might see something you like.”

 

“I don’t like anything.”

 

“You’re going to die a bitter, grumpy, and alone.”

 

“You’re going to die with two black eyes in Berlin 1990.”

 

“You’re zero fun, Kaz.” Chaolan frowned when he caught sight of movement over his brother’s shoulder, “press heading this way.”

 

Kazuya followed his gaze, then quickly led them on, weaving between suits and stands. Chaolan grabbed a flute of champagne from a waiter as they moved. He took a large gulp and accidentally slammed into Kazuya’s back as he stopped abruptly. He spluttered and held his hand over the rim of the glass before it could spill on their suits. He peered round his brother’s bulk. An elderly gentleman in a maroon suit and cummerbund had placed a knobbly hand on Kazuya’s lapel.

 

“Now this must be the young Mishima Kazuya!” The elderly gentlemen gave smile and withdrew his hand to proffer it in a handshake. Kazuya took it a long moment later and with obvious reluctance. Their hands had fortunately disentangled by the time the man added, “I’d know that look anywhere – you’re a splitting image of Heihachi when he was you’re age!”

 

Chaolan’s face paled and he glanced anxiously at his brother. Kazuya had fixed a crocodile smile and his whole posture was ridged. The old man seemed not to have noticed the predatory quality of that smile, which Chaolan thought quite a feat, given that Kazuya was practically radiating hate. Instead, the old man merely smiled back at Kazuya, then turned to Chaolan.

 

“And who’s this charming young man?”

 

“My brother,” Kazuya grated, trying to pull his manners back out of the ashes of an incinerator.

 

“Ah, another Mishima. Well, the world always needs more good businessmen.”

 

“Oh-” Chaolan’s face suddenly heated up, “I’m not-… I mean, I’m – uh-”

 

Kazuya watched him stutter and stumble over the painful barb. Despite having being adopted into the family over a decade ago, Chaolan had never been permitted by their father to take the Mishima family name.

 

“This is Mishima Chaolan,” Kazuya cut through the bumbling mess, “he’s here as my advisor.”

 

Chaolan immediately shut up. Kazuya saw him swallow, barely paying attention as the elderly gentleman introduced himself, chatted vaguely about his flight to Berlin Schönefeld and the poor weather today, before excusing himself to go pick at some vol-au-vents on a doily.

 

Chaolan turned slightly to Kazuya, his face still a painted smile, but his voice hissing,

 

“What the fuck are you doing, Kazuya?!” Kazuya shrugged in response. He snatched a champagne flute as a waiter with a table passed by. “I-if father finds out-”

 

“He’s not going to find out.”

 

“B-but if he does?”

 

Kazuya glanced over at the naked fear in his brother voice. He shrugged again and sipped his champagne,

 

“Then I’ll take the fall. It’d be worth it just to piss him off.”

 

Chaolan’s fingers twitched at his side and he shifted his feet in agitation,

 

“You can be a real bastard, you know that! Why’d you always have to stir things up!? Can’t you just make life easier for us for once?”

 

Kazuya raised his eyebrows, sipped his drink and said nothing. He didn’t miss the way his brother’s cheeks glowed with pride when the elderly gentleman returned later and addressed him as Mr Mishima though.

 

Kazuya was still smirking when Chaolan turned back to him after a lengthy engaged conversation.

 

“Shut up,” Chaolan muttered, face reddening with embarrassment. Kazuya caught his chin between two fingers, a gesture that might have been interpreted as affection. Chaolan knew better, reading it as assertive manipulation. “What do you want?” he asked, subdued.

 

“The Mishima Zaibatsu stall is still down one charismatic salesman.”

 

“Alright.” Chaolan pulled out of Kazuya’s grasp, “don’t leave me there too long though.”

 

He turned and moved away through the milling crowds. Trust Kazuya to make him feel guilty over something he’d initiated. It had sounded good though when that old man called him Mr Mishima. Chaolan hadn’t expected such a small thing to affect him so much. He sighed as he wound he way back to the laminated gaze of Mishima Heihachi lording it over his catalogue of armaments.

 

Kazuya’s eyes sharpened as soon as he was alone. Chaolan’s banter was always a welcome distraction at formal events, but this affair was a little different. This was the first time he was at a convention without the eagle piercing gaze of his father hovering over him at every moment. This was an opportunity for Mishima Kazuya, and not Heihachi, to gain allies. There would come a time when it would pay to have his own contacts and not just rely on his father’s reputation. Like for example, when Mishima Heihachi was in an early grave, and Kazuya ran the Zaibatsu. The thought of that power and freedom sent tendrils of warmth through his chest. Patience. He schooled himself. Patience, patience, patience. Like a panther waiting to pounce. His time would come.

 

His eye was caught by a lonely looking stall devoid of interest, hosted by an older, balding man with wispy white hair. The man was twisting agitated fingers and, as far as Kazuya could see, was the only person to turn up to the convention in a labcoat rather than a suit. Kazuya thrust his hands in his pockets and slouched over. There were no weapons on show at all. In fact, the stall consisted entirely of A4 pages spread with intricate diagrams and Cyrillic in a font size too small to read at a glance. Kazuya frowned and sifted his fingers through a few of the pages: cryogenics, genetics, robotics. These were all areas that might interest a weapons manufacture, but only a very long-sighted, and optimistic one. Kazuya glanced at a name badge fixed to the old man’s lab coat. Dr Bosconovitch. Another experimental scientist from the USSR then. There were a lot of them about now that all the Soviet state research divisions were collapsing. The ones with less wacky projects had already been snapped up, the rest were wandering homeless in an academic wasteland. Kazuya was surprised that one had been invited here. He had no qualms about saying as much.

 

“What’re you doing here, old man?”

 

Dr Bosconovitch didn’t seem put out by his tone.

 

“The future,” the doctor said calmly, “one day the world will scramble for my findings.”

 

“Uh huh,” Kazuya flicked over a few more pages of incomprehensible research. “Who let you in?”

 

The old man’s face fell. He gave a sigh,

 

“A courtesy. I once helped develop some of the advanced weapons in the world. The pre-nuclear age was younger, more innocent place. We did not have quite so much pessimism and we had not yet realised to what depths humanity could sink. I think this invitation was extended to me in the hope that I’d leave my current line of research and return to producing weapons of mass destruction.”

 

“And what exactly is your line of research?” Kazuya glanced carelessly over the seemingly random sciences spread before him.

 

“Why, simply the aim of all science since humanity ever begun.” He gave Kazuya a serious but slightly secretive smile. “To stop death,” he said quietly, “and to bring back those who have been so cruelly taken from us.”

 

Kazuya hesitated for a moment, then a cold smile slowly spread over his features,

 

“Strange place to promote such a thing, Doctor.”

 

Dr Bosconovitch shrugged,

 

“Weapons manufacturers are the only people with spare money in this day and age.” He tilted his head, “are you interested, Mr Mishima?”

 

“You know me.” It was more an observation than a question. The doctor nodded. Kazuya gave a thin smile, “then you know I am here not representing my own interests but that of my father’s corporation.”

 

“Is that bitterness, I hear, Mr Mishima?”

 

Kazuya’s eyes narrowed,

 

“The Mishima Zaibatsu has no interest in the work you’re doing here.”

 

“But _you_ do?” Dr Bosconovitch asked.

 

“You will know if I do,” Kazuya returned a little ominously. The doctor fell silent at that. Kazuya picked up a few pages from the desk and began to read them. The doctor watched him for a while, then put in tentatively,

 

“I hear the Mishima Zaibatsu have bought up many Soviet research facilities.” Kazuya said nothing to that and kept reading. “A word of warning,” the old man put in, “the USSR may be falling, but there are many who resent what you are doing.”

 

“Ex-Soviet,” Kazuya corrected, “and those facilities would have collapsed if we hadn’t bought them. You should be thanking me for keeping them open.”

 

“I am thankful, Mr Mishima, but there are many who are not. My people are proud, and there are many factions who wish to see those research centres stay Russian owned.”

 

“Old fashioned ideas from another era. Corporatism is the future. Or rather one corporation in particular.” Kazuya continued to scan read the papers in his hands.

 

“All the same, Mr Mishima, it is no small thing to come to this city and buy up all the main research and development of a country that has not quite fallen.”

 

Kazuya looked up sharply,

 

“Are you threatening me, Doctor?”

 

“Of course not. I am cautioning you. These are volatile times and your company is making itself a target.”

 

“They can’t target my company if we own all their weapons, Doctor.” He tapped the papers in his hand then set them back on the table. “You’re work is aimless and undisciplined. With a little direction and firm guidance, something useful could be made of this though.”

 

The doctor gave a heavy sigh. He regarded Kazuya from over the rims of his round glasses,

 

“Unstifled research and the space to pursue my own projects is what has allowed me to make breakthroughs in the past, Mr Mishima. I’m not looking for my work to be streamlined into some new weapons technology.” The doctor’s voice had a hard edge to it now, and his body language had become much more wary. “And my work is not in the least bit aimless. I have a very precise aim in fact.”

 

“Let me guess. Some lost loved one you want to return from death,” Kazuya smiled coldly as the doctor’s startled expression confirmed his guess. “Sentimentality and weakness. The dead cannot return, Doctor, and wishing it so only wastes precious energy that must be expended in making ourselves stronger. You look backward when you should be looking forward. How do we _improve_ ourselves. Make ourselves impervious. Now _that_ is a research worth pursuing.”

 

Doctor Bosconovitch looked at Kazuya. He had sad, contemplative blue eyes,

 

“It sounds like you have lost someone you were close to as well, Mr Mishima.”

 

Kazuya snarled and slammed his hands onto the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor and the doctor took a few steps back. Kazuya seized hold of his temper, aware of the faces that had turned his way. His voice dropped to a growl,

 

“Keep your speculations to yourself, old man. You do not want to test me. I can bury you so deep you’ll never see an ounce of funding for the rest of your life.”

 

The doctor was impassive for a moment, then he dropped his gaze,

 

“I apologise, Mr Mishima. I meant no offence.”

 

Kazuya set his teeth together. He swept the papers off the desk as he left, leaving them to tumble around Dr Bosconovitch like new snow.

 

He was seething as he stalked back to the Zaibatsu stall, lost in his thoughts of bitterness and revenge. He was so occupied that didn’t notice his brother until he’d practically thrown himself into his arms.

 

“K-K-Kazuya…”

 

Kazuya took Chaolan firmly by the shoulders,

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“I only took my glasses off for a second! Only for a s-second! And some b-bastard photographer got all up in my face! Kaz, if they use it to make the Z-zaibatsu look bad-…! Father’s PR office are like hawks with picking up that stuff, I’m going to be-… Kaz, you said you wouldn’t let anyone-”

 

Chaolan’s body was trembling. Immediately Kazuya’s fury increased tenfold. Some idiot out to make a few extra bucks would have no idea of the painful consequences their scoop could mean for Chaolan, and by extension probably Kazuya as well.

 

“Who? Show me who.” The stall had a number of journalists still snapping pictures of Heihachi’s poster and the display weapons. Kazuya realised he’d left Chaolan in the lurch after promising him this would not happen. The white light of camera flashes clicked and flared all around the Zaibatsu stall, one of the most powerful companies in the world after all. Chaolan pointed a shaking finger into the crowd, his other hand still trying to to shade his face in case he was targetted again.

 

An orange haired young man with a large camera about his neck and a pen behind his ear saw the finger pointing in his direction. He made to break away casually from the Zaibatsu stall. Kazuya strong-armed his way through the crowd, shouldering people out the way. He yanked the man round.

 

“You taking pictures of my brother without his permission?” he practically spat in the journalist’s face.

 

The journalist looked a bit put out at being caught up with, but recovered from it well, and didn’t seem too intimidated the furious Mishima before him.

 

“You run one of the world’s largest corporations, Mr Mishima. Photography in this instance is in the public interest. I can take all the photos I please.”

 

“Can you now,” Kazuya stepped closer, pushing his face into the journalist’s space. The ginger man’s expression wavered a little now. “Maybe I can take all the photos _I_ please too.” Kazuya grabbed the camera from round the man’s neck and threw it to the floor. He brought his heel smashing down into the thing, startling people nearby. Cracking glass, and flying plastic shattered under his foot. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out his wallet. He rifled through a wad of bills and dropped a few onto the destroyed camera. “Stay away from my family,” he hissed and stalked back to his brother. “Come on, we’re going upstairs,” he said softly to Chaolan.

 

Chaolan shook his head,

 

“W-we have to stay here. The Expo goes on all afternoon, and someone has to-”

 

“Don’t argue with me.”

 

Just as Kazuya was about to lead Chaolan away from the stall, someone in a brown suit approached the stall buoyantly.

 

“Mr Mishima! Just who I was hoping to see! I’m a big fan of your company’s work. Very reliable, good quality workmanship. I was actually hoping we could talk contracts for-”

 

Kazuya pushed a business card into the man’s face,

 

“Make an appointment.”

 

Chaolan winced in apology at the surprised client’s face, then allowed himself to be led out of the Expo and into the elevator.

 

“Th-that was a client, Kazuya.” Chaolan still felt sick. His breathing was shaky and his head hurt.

 

“More important things require my attention at present.”

 

Chaolan glanced sidelong at his brother. Kazuya was always reserved with anything that might look like kindness, but his stiff awkward attempts to shield his brother were always received as the deep affection Chaolan knew them to be.

 

When they were back in Kazuya’s room, Chaolan finally took off his sunglasses. Kazuya was surprised he’d been able to see anything at all. His face was so swollen and purple, his left eye had closed up completely.

 

“Sorry for overreacting,” Chaolan sat quietly on the edge of the bed. Kazuya pulled his cigarettes out of the draw, he put two in his mouth, and lit them both with a single flick of a lighter. He passed one to Chaolan who took it gratefully, heaving deep breaths and filling the room with smoke.

 

“It wasn’t an overreaction.” Kazuya said around the cigarette. The unspoken consequences of one erroneous photograph hung heavy on the air between them. Kazuya returned to the centre of the room, folded his arms and looked out the window. The sky had finally stopped drizzling and the clouds were attempting to roll back into something like sunshine. “Stay here and get some rest.”

 

“B-but the Expo-!”

 

“I will go back. Take the afternoon off. Then we can go down town tonight. Get food and try out some of those nightclubs.”

 

Chaolan’s face went radiant, even if he had to wince at the pain smiling caused him. He coughed slightly on smoke.

 

“I would like that,” he said quietly, then gave a small, still-vulnerable laugh, “and sleep does sound good. I’ll go back to my room and stop smoking out yours.”

 

“You can sleep here.” Kazuya took another draw of his cigarette then stubbed it out in an ash tray even though he’d only got half way through it. “Catch you later.” He opened the door and walked out.

 

Chaolan took another breath and shaky smile. He kicked off his shoes, and shimmied out of all his clothes that would crease until he was just in his boxers. He hung his shirt and trousers up in Kazuya’s wardrobe, then extracted a black turtleneck and pulled it on. It was a little oversized, since Kazuya was taller and broader, but oversized felt good just then. He slipped into bed and pulled the duvet over him. He sat with his knees draw up, smoking silently and regarding his trembling fingers.

 

Kazuya’s room had always felt safer than his. When Chaloan had first been adopted into the Mishima family, Heihachi had done all in his power to foster hatred and rivalry between the brothers. To a large extent he’d succeeded, but when it came to matters concerning Heihachi himself, Kazuya and Chaolan became a united front, fortified in their common hate.

 

Chaolan still recalled the first time he’d fallen afoul of his adoptive father’s rage. That night he’d retreated to a corner of his room and curled up, trying to stifle his sobs. He remembered the way his room had been etched in moonlight. It was larger than anything he’d ever had before, and every item within it was finely crafted, exquisite and expensive. He was more unhappy just then than he’d ever been in his life.

 

He recalled the way he’d sucked in his breath and tried to be absolutely silent when his door slid open. Kazuya had stood in the doorway. He would have been about nine at the time. Despite Chaolan’s best attempts to become invisible, Kazuya had come over and crouched down before him. Chaolan had stared at him with wide eyes, terrified his new brother would go and tell Heihachi of the weak tears shining on his face. Instead, Kazuya had said a strange and odd thing that had always stayed with Chaolan ever since:

 

“Make sure to only hurt in one place at a time. You can either hurt in your head or hurt in your body. If you do both, you crumble like charcoal and all your fire goes out and you can’t get back up. So make sure you only hurt in once place at a time. You can come and sleep in my room when it hurts in your body, that way you won’t have to worry in your head or be afraid, because I will stop anything from coming through the door.”

 

And it had been true. The world did not feel so empty and so frightening in Kazuya’s room. Chaolan would curl up asleep on the futon next to him and it really did feel like Kazuya would keep away anything that could frighten him further. It cleared his head enough that he could lie still and think only of the places where his body was bruised and battered and eventually drift into a sleep of sorts.

 

They never spoke about their mutual pain after that first night, but neither was there a need to. They could be strong even whilst saying nothing. There was a comfort that came from just knowing that there was someone close by who was as hurt and suffering and furious as you were.

 

Chaolan stubbed out his cigarette and pressed a remote control that brought down the window blinds. He snuggled down under the soft covers and let his eyes drift into a gentle, content, safe sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smash camera and throw notes on it is an ode to the Godfather. Kind of going for some of that vibe in this humanising look at two fairly unpleasant people. Cheers for reading and thanks for the support. Fiction writing in this fandom seems to be a pretty small affair, but that’s never stopped me before and I’m enjoying myself over here.


	3. On the Offensive

Lee Chaolan stretched out his arms and spun in the street. His shiny shoes shattered reflections in shadowy puddles. The black roads were lit with a sliding riot of light where wet tarmac collected the blare of built-up night life, creating a galaxy below to rival the new stars above.

 

“I’ve missed Chinese food,” he grinned, letting his long coat fan out behind him as he spun.

 

“It wasn’t even good Chinese food,” Kazuya grumbled.

 

“You get out more. This is the first time I’ve had anything remotely like a taste of home in years.”

 

“Home?” Kazuya raised an eyebrow.

 

A flicker of fear passed over Chaolan’s face,

 

“I didn’t mean-”

 

“Relax,” Kazuya laughed, “only someone with their brain out of gear would call the Mishima estate home.” Chaolan’s smile made a brave comeback. He adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them up his nose despite the fact they meant he could see almost nothing in the dark. “So,” Kazuya bent over a cigarette, shielding it from a light nippy wind that skittered about their coattails as he lit it up, “where to? The night’s yours.” That brought the radiance back to Chaolan in an instant.

 

“We don’t really have to go to gay bars if they make you uncomfortable. I’m pretty easy either way."

 

“I know you are. But make your choice and don’t regret it, you wont’ be getting chances like this every day.”

 

“Round one can be painfully hetrosexual, I’ll ease you in.”

 

“If you make a single sexual innuendo tonight you’re on your own.”

 

“Kaz, it’s all in your filthy mind, I’d never dare do a thing like that.”

 

The first bar wasn’t a bar. It was an acid house club reached by a ladder into a basement with a ceiling so low Kazuya immediately felt like he was being flattened into a tin. The music was so loud and the room was so dark that he almost immediately lost Chaolan. He spent twenty minutes standing in the deafening noise with bodies sliding all around him before he stamped back out of the place and lit up on the street. There was sweat running down the back of his neck and he could feel the bruises from his earlier sparring session aching. He undid the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, letting the wind cool his chest. A thick dark scar slashed down diagonally down his torso, a relic from the time a five-year-old Kazuya had picked a fight with his father. The light of his cigarette glowed soft gold in the night. The pound of the acid house through the walls behind him chimed with the throb of his own heartbeat. He breathed out slowly, before drawing a lungful of fresh cold air into him. The cold air stung his lungs but cleared his head, deep and refreshing.

 

Someone came and leant on the wall next to him and chatted animatedly in German. He didn’t know any German, but they didn’t seem to mind or notice, happy to monologue at him and take the cigarette he offered. Chaolan came out half an hour later, dripping with sweat, wearing only a fishnet tank top.

 

Kazuya jerked his head at what he was wearing,

 

“Thought you didn’t bring that with you?”

 

Chaolan gave him a tired but happy grin,

 

“I lied.”

 

“Where’s your coat?”

 

Chaolan looked around him, a little surprised. He gave a slightly guilty shrug.

 

“You’re going to get cold,” Kazuya said without much interest.

 

“I’ve got you to look after me, big brother.” Chaolan stole the new cigarette Kazuya had started from out his mouth. Kazuya glowered at him. “I was going to go get drinks before we hit the clubs but this place was just here and it’s pretty famous, you know.”

 

Kazuya grunted in response. They meandered their way to a bar – Chaolan shivering and wrapping his arms around himself; Kazuya carried his coat slung over one shoulder, determined to let his brother learn responsibility the hard way. Despite the cold, Chaolan was grinning and smiling and babbling about other venues he wanted to visit.

 

“A girl in the club was telling me about this really good night that rotates venues – almost everything worth going to rotates venue, Kaz – the techno there is so-”

 

“How did you hear anything _anyone_ was saying in there?”

 

“Don’t be such an old man – hey let’s get drinks in here.”

 

Shortly, they were drinking fluorescent cocktails in a very pink bar. Everything was so pink Kazuya winced everywhere he looked. Even his cocktail was pink. Chaolan had enticed over three punks in ripped up tees and half shaved heads: two young women and a young man close to their own age. Chaolan was stammering through his poor German much to their delight. They made an effort to switch to English to include Kazuya, who at best for foreign languages could manage English and a smattering of Russian if he wasn’t drinking cocktails.

 

“Chaolan says you’re in Berlin for the music, are you a techno fan?” A young woman with a nose ring, green hair and five piercings in her ear asked him.

 

“Nope,” Kazuya swirled his cocktail.

 

“Kaz, don’t be a spoilsport,” Chaolan turned to the woman, “he’s mostly making sure I don’t make a fool of myself.”

 

“And failing,” Kazuya added. The young woman laughed at that. It was warm and a welcome break from all the cold facades and ulterior motives back at the convention.

 

“Enjoying Berlin?” she asked him.

 

He gave a non-committal shrug,

 

“Seems okay. Not sure it’s really my kind of thing. Belongs to people like you, I guess. Very different to my world.”

 

“Ah, alternative youth culture,” she put on a mock serious voice, then laughed again, “it’s rebellion and not giving a shit, nothing else to it. Pretty universal regardless of what walk of life you come from.” He raised his glass. He could definitely drink to that. He pulled a slight face as he swallowed the pink liquid. “How’s your cocktail?”

 

“Pretty bad,” he admitted.

 

“Too sweet?” she asked. He nodded. Next round’s on me, she said, “bet I can find something more to your taste.”

 

One of her friends gave a wolf whistle as she left for the bar. She flipped a finger up at her friend.

 

The next cocktail was better. Kazuya was loath to admit it, but he didn’t need to – Chaolan always read his face like a book, and eagerly shared Kazuya’s appreciation with his new friends. The German punks stayed with them for the next few hours – first they insisted on taking Kazuya somewhere he could get good whiskey, once they found out it was one of his drinks of choice. After whiskey it was another techno club – Kazuya found he didn’t mind it so much once there was enough alcohol in his system. The sounds went from deafening to throbbing, settling deep in his bones and speaking to primal things reverberating within him. He closed his eyes and let his body sway to the electronic waves of noise rippling through the room. When he opened his eyes the punk woman was dancing close to him. To his right was Chaolan somehow dancing but also making out alternately with the other two. Kazuya pulled a face and the young woman in front of him laughed at it. There was no room to hear the sound, so he saw her face pull the shape of a laugh while only the drum of the techno swelled around them. At some point she was very close, and the taste of whiskey from her mouth was pressed into his, at another point he remembered the feel of her against him, body slick with sweat in the heat and dark and noise. At another point he’d shrugged and taken a pill she’d offered, and the world slowed down, and he felt stretched out like a thousand roots spread through the club, and the loneliness that always kept an iron grip on his heart loosened for a few precious hours and he danced like the legacy of an empire wasn’t on his shoulders.

 

It was the small hours of the morning when he felt the cold night wind on his face. Chaolan was disentangling his limbs from someone and mixing up all his German with Mandarin. When he finally turned to Kazuya he was shivering in the frigid air. Kazuya threw his coat over him and hailed a taxi. The taxi didn’t want to pick them up, but Kazuya threw notes in the driver’s face and threatened him and soon they were on their way back to the hotel. They stumbled their way through the bright lobby lights and Kazuya got them into the elevator and off at the right floor. It took him three tries and much cursing to open his own door, and there was no way he was bothering with Chaolan’s. He sat his brother down on the bed and made him drink a glass of water whilst lighting up another cigarette for himself. Then he took a shower, and watched the glass steam up whilst he was still high, and traced his fingers through the patterns the air made whilst heavy with water.

 

When he got out the shower Chaolan was asleep on his bed. Kazuya threw the covers over him, then laid down next to him. He sipped from a cool glass of water and stared at the ceiling and thought about feeling free until he finally drifted to sleep.

***

He awoke the next morning when the hotel staff knocked on his door with a ten thirty A.M breakfast. They’d already tried to give it to him at nine thirty and ten o’clock. He brought in two trays of food and set them on the bed. He nudged his brother with a foot.

 

“Chaolan.” Nothing. “Chaolan.”

 

Chaolan stirred with a disgruntled moan and pulled a pillow over his head. Kazuya poured himself a green tea and sat inhaling its clean herbal aroma and letting the smell chase the weight of a hangover trying to swell in his head. He opened the bedroom window and let in a fresh breeze before settling himself back on the bed.

 

“Go have a shower,” he kicked his brother again, then picked up his itinerary whilst sipping at his hot tea. There was an ache behind his eyes as he stared at the characters on the sheet.

 

There were more talks and presentations, more meandering around stalls, a scheduled demonstration out of town that had started half an hour ago, and a buffet brunch. He glanced over at the still sleeping Chaolan and gave him a solid kick that sent him sprawling out of bed and onto the floor.

 

“ _Kazuya!!_ ”

 

“Shower. You stink.”

 

“ _You_ stink, idiot. Why’d you kick me out of bed!?” Chaolan’s face was all steeped in sleep. His black eye was thoroughly puffed up and purple and his hair was a muffed, tousled silver. He sloped off to the bathroom, huffing and slouching and cursing as he went.

 

By eleven they were only a fraction more awake. Chaolan was moaning about how much his head hurt and picking flakes of almond off a croissant.

 

“My head hurts from too much to drink and my body hurts from too much fighting you,” he sulked.

 

Kazuya could sympathise, his own situation was not much better. He didn’t though.

 

“Your own fault,” he said as he lit up their first cigarettes of the day. He planned to stop, because smoking did nothing good for his martial arts, but tobacco was too much of a welcome release from everyday life under the roof of Mishima Heihachi.

 

Chaolan leaned back on the bed next to him, and for a moment there was silence as they both breathed out wreaths of smoke, and sipped green tea.

 

“When you’re head of the Mishima Zaibatsu, can we start every morning like this?”

 

Kazuya raised an eyebrow,

 

“Thought you planned on taking leadership of the Zaibatsu yourself?”

 

Chaolan made an inarticulate noise, then shoved a half buttered croissant into his mouth, chewed and swallowed,

 

“I _am_ going to take over,” he insisted, “but on the off chance I don’t, I’m keeping my options open. Being a good businessman about it.” Kazuya gave him an amused look and reached for a pastry himself. Chaolan turned thoughtful, “Kaz, you know what you said about father having plans for me… in America…”

 

“Don’t talk about it now. You’ll only upset yourself.”

 

“I never get upset,” Chaolan said indignantly, “but did you mean that for real? He’s going to send me away?”

 

“To the best schools,” Kazuya kept his voice carefully flat and devoid of all intonation.

 

“But we’re already at the best schools… and we do them together…”

 

“Well, you’ll be going to the best in America. And that’s a lot bigger than Japan.”

 

Chaolan’s fingers twisted nervously,

 

“Is he getting rid of me?”

 

“No. He’s improving the value of his assets.” Chaolan looked hurt at that too, but Kazuya only shrugged. They both knew he was only calling the situation as it was. “Stop worrying. You’ll thrive in the US. The people there are all loud and friendly, like you.” Chaolan pulled a face, but Kazuya ploughed on, “you’ll be away from that cursed estate, free to do as you please. You’ll be able to grow up without looking over your shoulder.”

 

“I’d rather stay with you.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t. This is a fucking gold star opportunity to get out from under his constant surveillance, and I’m not letting you throw it away. Not that he’d let you have a say in the matter anyway.”

 

“But… but what about you?”

 

Kazuya’s eyes narrowed. He took another pull on his cigarette.

 

“What about me,” he said flatly.

 

“It’s better when there’s two of us against him…”

 

Kazuya stayed still and silent for a long moment. Then returned to smoking.

 

“I managed just fine without you before you arrived.”

 

Chaolan’s eyes went to the jagged thick red scar running across his brother’s bare chest. Kazuya fixed him with a black look, daring him to challenge that last statement. Chaolan relented and glanced away.

 

Kazuya’s eyes returned to the itinerary, narrowing slightly as he perused the list.

 

“What?” Chaolan asked when he felt the tension between them had sufficiently dissipated.

 

“How essential do you think ‘wine and nibbles’ are this evening? I have an engagement I’d already arranged for tonight.”

 

“Oooh, Kazuya!” Chaolan swivelled round and flopped his head into his brothers lap, looking up at him through half lidded eyes, “you’re going a date? Tell me the gossip.”

 

Kazuya gave him a look of utter contempt,

 

“A date? Is that really the first thing that comes to mind when I say I already have plans?”

 

Chaolan’s cigarette butt waggled in his mouth as he frowned.

 

“Not really. Knowing you, it’d be more likely some underground semi-legal ring fight in a dodgy part of town.”

 

Kazuya said nothing.

 

Chaolan sat up abruptly,

 

“It’s _not_ , right?”

 

Kazuya shrugged,

 

“MMA tournament in East Berlin. Everything’s taken care of, I just need to show up.”

 

“ _Kazuya_ , we’re meant to be closing this stupid oil deal and-”

 

“Didn’t see you complaining last night.”

 

“But that’s kinda the point, Kaz! We already had a night on the town and don’t we really need to secure this deal before we head out again?”

 

“We’ll secure it at lunch,” he handed the itinerary to Chaolan, “or brunch, whatever that is.”

 

“You philistine, that’s breakfast for lazy people. People even lazier than us.”

 

“Right. Well, that. It’s in an hour, but you didn’t write where on your little sheet.”

 

Chaolan pulled a face.

 

“I’ll go get dressed then check,” he stood up, “I can’t believe you didn’t at least warn me you were planning on fighting here…”

 

“Why’d you think I was training with you yesterday?”

 

“Uh… because you like to train _every_ day?”

 

“Good answer. Run along and find out where that venue is, we can finalise this Rochefort shit today.”

 

Chaolan stuck his tongue out at him as he left.

 

Kazuya closed his eyes and enjoyed the brief slice of sunlight that fell across his skin and the silence that filled the room like a lapping ocean.

 

He knew something was wrong when Chaolan came back. He could hear his footsteps shuffling quietly outside the door as he contemplated whether to come into Kazuya’s room. Kazuya counted six minutes before Chaolan tentatively opened the door.

 

He looked pale. He’d snapped his glasses off and his bruised face made the picture look sadder. One of his hands was balled into a fist and shaking. The other was wrapped around a newspaper and also shaking. He looked down at his feet and chewed his lip. Kazuya didn’t think he’d ever seen his brother look so contrite, at least not directed towards him. Their father was another matter. He looked like he was trying to form words, but none came out.

 

Kazuya gave a heavy sigh and beckoned him over. Chaolan didn’t move. Kazuya got up and snatched the newspaper out of his hand.

 

There was a large black and white picture dominating the front page. Chaolan’s silver hair contrasted nicely with dark smudge of the bruise about his eye, whilst his skin showed up light against a hasty pair of sunglasses trying to make their way back onto his face. For a moment, Kazuya’s gaze was so drawn by the striking photograph that he missed the headline running over the top: _Hidden face of the Mishima? A violent streak to the heir apparent of the Mishima Zaibatsu._ He stared at the headline dumbly, then folded the tabloid so that so that he could read the article more easily: _yesterday at an international arms fair in Berlin, the young adopted son of Heichachi Mishima, owner of the largest corporation in the world, was seen sporting a hefty black eye. The culprit? Likely to be the heir apparent of the Mishima Zaibatsu, first born and only blood son of the tycoon: Kazuya Mishima. Despite being only 21-years-old, Kazuya Mishima has already shown himself to have an unpredictable and violent temperament. He is rumoured to partake in bloody underground fighting tournaments across the world, and yesterday assaulted a journalist when attempting to remove this photograph from the public eye! (Inset: right; Chaolan Lee, adopted son of Heihachi Mishima). Could Kazuya Mishima’s volatile and often violent behaviour spell doom for the future of stock and share prices in the Mishima Zaibatsu? Is young Chinese adopted brother Chaolan Lee the victim of abuse at the hands of this dark heir to the Zaibatsu throne? Has the cold prince finally grown too much for once impervious and omnipotent Heihachi Mishima to control? Only time will tell._

 

At the bottom of the page was an old photo of Kazuya scowling at some public function, probably from a year ago. His eyebrows were heavy set and his eyes were black with scorn. Kazuya looked up from the picture of himself. Chaolan’s lower lip was trembling.

 

“They’re obsessed with pointing out that you’re adopted and not my brother by blood,” Kazuya said mildly.

 

“I’ll find out who wrote this and I’ll fucking murder them,” Chaolan exploded. “I-I can’t believe that they would write this! It’s defamation a-and libel! A-and I-I’m so sorry, Kazuya. I’m so sorry I wasn’t more careful-”

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“It _is_ my fault! If I’d just been more careful-”

 

“I should have kept my cool in the sparring match yesterday.”

 

“I shouldn’t have broken the _rules_ in sparring match yesterday!”

 

“Chaolan,” Kazuya sighed and threw the newspaper onto the bed. “What’s done is done. There’s no point passing the blame. We just need to handle this before father’s press office gets hold of it.”

 

“I’ll fucking _ruin_ that journalist!”

 

“Yes, of course. But we also need damage control, you might have to give an interview or two. I’ll probably just make matters worse. And we need to get a contract signed with Rochefort immediately. He might not read a rag like this, but who knows what other trash might decide this is a story and run with it.”

 

“There’s _nothing_ to run with! There _is_ no story! For all they know, I might have fallen off a stepladder!”

 

“Yes, well. Unfortunately for us, I did in fact punch you.”

 

“Do you think they already know?” Chaolan’s fingers were twisting round and round. His face was peaked and tired from the night before. “Father’s press office, do you think they already know?”

 

“I don’t fucking know what they know, I only know what _I_ know! And what I know is that we can’t let this… We have to demonstrate that we can handle this professionally. And…” The clear line of argument in Kazuya’s mind was fraying as he thought of his father reading the article: read of Kazuya punching his brother, fighting in tournaments, assaulting a journalist, challenging the ‘once impervious and omnipotent Heihachi Mishima’. He took a slightly stumbling step back.

 

Chaolan caught him by his elbow and steadied him.

 

“Kaz?”

 

“I’m… I’m fine,” but Kazuya sat down on the bed anyway, not trusting himself to stay upright. He rubbed his forehead, then ran his thumb over a scar under his eye left eye and over his right cheek. “Fuck,” he said very softly. Chaolan knelt down on the floor next to him. “I’m not ready,” Kazuya’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, “I’m not ready to challenge him. There’ll be hell when he reads this. Even if I tried to… Even if I went back as meek and subservient as a fucking dog it wouldn’t be good enough.” He pulled his hands through his thick black hair and bowed his head. Chaolan tentatively touched a hand to his leg. “I need to think.” Kazuya stood abruptly, “I need to think! Get out.”

 

Chaolan’s face drained of what little colour remained. He left the room quickly without looking back.

***

 

They didn’t speak as they went down to brunch. They were both dressed impeccably and fell into step as they had done for most of their lives, easily matching each other’s strides and casting the illusion of cool control over the situation. Chaolan took the lead.

 

They entered a bright morning room filled with round tables covered in white lace cloths. A large buffet was spread along one side of the room. It was that odd time of day, when it was appropriate to serve both sparkling wine and coffee side by side. Chaolan picked up a plate and passed one to Kazuya without looking at him. Then he sized up the room, marking out his prey. He flung a cheese cracker onto his plate and a couple of grapes, then slalomed in and out of the weapons convention guests, motioning with a finger that Kazuya should approach Rochefort from the other side.

Before Kazuya got to his target, a figure walked into his path. He gestured minutely to stall Chaolan as he turned to this new obstacle. He heard his brother click his tonguing impatiently but turn his attention to the buffet table.

 

Kazuya surveyed the intruder. She was not the usual type attending the conference. Almost everyone here wore a suit, tie, and fake smile. This woman wore a stiff light brown military uniform, a blue beret over thin black hair, and an expression devoid of emotion. She chilled the atmosphere around him.

 

Kazuya raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for an explanation for her abrupt appearance. She said nothing for a few moments, choosing instead to stare him down with pale, grey eyes.

 

“Colonel Yaroslava Dragunova,” she said abruptly, standing legs slightly apart, hands behind her back. “You are Kazuya Mishima.”

 

“I am.” Kazuya was intrigued. She had an abrupt military manner that he found preferable to the simpering tones of the businessmen who’d pandered for his attention thus far.

 

“The Mishima Zaibatsu are playing a dangerous game. Your recent purchases grant you a monopoly over the control of weapons manufacture in the Caucasus region previously directly under Soviet jurisdiction.”

 

“Do they?” Kazuya feigned innocence.

 

“You would do well to take more caution in your purchases.”

 

“It’s your government that’s selling the contracts, Colonel. Debt will do that to a man. Or woman,” he conceded.

 

She narrowed cold, empty eyes at him. She held him with that deadened gaze for a long moment, then said,

 

“We understand you are intending to contract Rochefort Enterprises, per the conclusion of their previous contract with the Soviet Government.”

 

“ _Per the conclusion_ ,” Kazuya mocked the words, “you declared bankruptcy when it came to fulfilling those contracts. Those oil fields are fair game.”

 

“Nevertheless, the Soviet Union had plans to renew those contracts. We hope the Mishima Zaibatsu will wisely take note of our registered interest in this matter.”

 

“ _Registered interest,_ ” he parroted back at her, lip curling unpleasantly, “your government has no fucking money. Your interest means fuck all. And you know it, otherwise they’d be making the deal themselves instead of sending military officers to _register their interest_.”

 

The colonel set him with such a look that for a moment Kazuya was reminded of Heihachi.

 

“Very well,” she said softly, “consider this a warning then.”

 

“Are you threatening me?”

 

“Yes,” came the simple reply.

 

Kazuya smirked at the honesty.

 

“A tactic after my own heart, but I’m afraid I don’t do well with threats. Especially not coming from a crumbling empire. Your country’s in its death throes. You’ll be dead within a year.”

 

“Spetsnaz are very much alive and well. And we will ride whatever wave is coming. You would do well to remember that, Mr Mishima. Stay away from those oil fields.” She straightened her beret and swept out of the room.

 

Chaolan gave him look of confusion. Kazuya shook his head and motioned to Rochefort, who was peering into a cafetiere trying to judge how much coffee was left in it. That was the second warning about collecting ex-USSR contracts Kazuya had got in under twenty-four hours. He’d have to looking into getting more security for the remainder of the conference.

 

“Oh! Mr De Rochefort,” Chaolan came up next to Rochefort under the pretence of cutting a wad of butter for himself, “how excellent to see you again. How did yesterday treat you? I hope the weather didn’t ruin your evening.”

 

Mr Rochefort gave surprised smile and fixed a bowtie at his neck,

 

“Mr Lee, what a pleasure. I’ve been having a marvellous time, and yesterday was very successful, thank you, in fact I had several bids on my oil contracts, including renewed interest from the Soviet Union, so I’m spoilt for choice really! Not even a little rain could dampen that for me!”

 

Chaolan kept his face perfectly schooled,

 

“You have? How encouraging. Would you care to join my brother and I at a table?” Chaolan gestured, and on cue Kazuya appeared at Rochefort’s elbow, piling bread onto his plate. He was subdued and quiet, and doing his best to look like a respectable businessman and not like a thick muscled fighter scowling at the buffet table.

 

Rochefort’s expression lost a little of its enthusiasm as he caught sight of Kazuya. He gave a slight smile and inclined his head to Chaolan,

 

“Why, of course.”

 

Soon they were eating all together at one of the prim round tables. Chaolan and Kazuya had plates piled with an odd assortment of things they’d snatched off the buffet without any mental expenditure. Rochefort sipped at a cup of tea. Chaolan and Kazuya were already on wine.

 

“So,” Chaolan said brightly, “you say you had lots of interest yesterday, not too much I hope!”

 

“Yes, lots of interest,” Rochefort’s voice was warm, and he thanked a waiter who came and gave him a little pot of hot milk for his tea. “Actually, so much interest that it really got me thinking about how this is the start of a new era – this is really an opportunity for us to invest in the future – for us to think carefully about the legacy we want our children to have.”

 

“We’re all a little young to be thinking of children, aren’t we, Mr De Rochefort?” Chaolan cocked an eyebrow at him.

 

“That may be, Mr Lee, but investment is a long term commitment – much like raising a child – and I would like to have one of my own some day. I’d like someone to pass on my own legacy to, I don’t think I need to explain that to a Mishima. It’s something I’ve always respected about your corporation – very family orientated – even a multi-national corporation can still be a family affair.”

 

Chaolan saw Kazuya’s fingers tighten so hard around his wine glass he was sure it would shatter.

 

“Indeed,” Chaolan flashed another smile and deftly steered the conversation elsewhere, “and what better place to invest than in a partnership with the Mishima. Two families mutually benefiting from a deal that will bring us closer together, not just as business partners, but as friends.”

 

Rechefort touched his chest,

 

“Mr Lee, you speak so beautifully, and straight from the heart, you have such a way with words! But actually, yesterday I got talking with a Russian scientist who really has quite a remarkable vision of the future.” Kazuya shifted in his seat but said nothing. “It got me thinking,” Rochefort continued, “that maybe what we need is for smaller companies who’ve really got a similar vision, to come together and use our profits to give a home to research like Dr Bosconovitch’s. And really, we can’t have that kind of control over where we want our profits to go if we’ve signed such long term contracts, like those I was thinking of with the Mishima. If companies like mine kept more control over our assets, we could regulate our buyers – ethically screen them even, try and make sure our oil is going to good places – and encourage our partners to be investing in really cutting edge but fringe work like the good doctor’s. Presently, mega-corporations hold all the power over what research gets funded, but with companies like mine paving the way… the nineteen-nineties could really be the era of peace – the end to all these wars that have plagued us for a hundred years!”

 

Chaolan caught Kazuya’s eye. Kazuya intended to answer. Chaolan gave him a warning look that said something like _don’t fuck this up._

 

“Mr De Rochefort,” Kazuya put his wine glass down and sat back in his chair. He folded his arms and slouched a little, fixing him with his famous sullen stare. “Do you know what causes war?”

 

Rochefort looked a little put out by the question,

 

“Many things, Mr Mishima. Chief among them greed, selfishness, that natural human need to take and keep t-”

 

“Weapons,” Kazuya interrupted. “Weapons cause wars. If two children throw fists at each other, you have a fight. Give them each a gun, and you have a war. But take _one_ of their guns away, Mr De Rochefort, and what do you have?”

 

“Oppression?”

 

“Peace,” Kazuya corrected. “For the world to have peace, one person just needs to have all the guns. The Mishima Zaibatsu _will_ be the one with all the guns, Mr De Rochefort. Whether that takes a decade, or two decades, it will happen, and we will rule the world. A contract with your company will speed us along the way, but it’s not necessary to our success. There are dozens of you we can use. And at some point we will turn around and look at who our allies are, and who our allies aren’t. You talk about your choices as if you can shape the world, Mr De Rochefort, but your petty ‘billion dollar’ company can no more shape the world than an ant can a boot. The question you really need to ask yourself, is are you going to be crushed like every other company in this room, or are you going to make the right choice, and make yourself very rich along the way.”

 

There was silence. Chaolan looked straight ahead, eyebrows lost in his hair line. He sipped his wine glass and kept drinking until it was empty. Rochefort had stopped eating. There was a slight tremble in his hand as he set his cutlery down.

 

“You, uh – certainly know how to make a business proposal, Mr Mishima,” he said quietly and just a little shakily. “But, I’ll have you know, I do not take kindly to being threatened, and if you think-”

 

“I am not threatening you, Mr De Rochefort. Trust me, you would know if I were. I am merely stating the facts, one businessman to another. Take a step back from your pride and fears and think rationally about the situation. The Mishima Zaibatsu has grown in the last forty-five years from nothing into the largest corporation in the world. Current predications are that it will double in size again just in the next ten years. The future belongs to corporations now, not to states, not to soviets, and certainly not to ethics. Now, that’s not to say that if there were a friend close to the Mishima family, they could not use their influence to steer the direction of the Zaibatsu towards a route of their choosing… That indeed would be power, and power that might change the shape of the future… but you’ve got your heart set on some kind of protest vote, is that right? You want to be seen to be taking a stand against a big nasty corporation, instead of _actually_ making a change.”

 

“Mr Mishima, you’re being manipulative and unfair, I-”

 

“I do apologise if my brother has upset you, Mr De Rochefort,” Chaolan swept in, voice rife with emotion, “he can be so thoughtless. Kazuya’s always been such a realist. But I understand. You run a small company, and it feels important to exercise that power even in the face of overwhelming odds. I think it’s very brave of you. So many other people would take the safe, profitable option, but, despite the risk, you want to stick to your guns, pardon the pun!”

 

Mr Rochefort’s head turned between the brothers quickly,

 

“Well, wait a moment, I’m a businessman as much as the next person, so let’s not throw around the word _risk_ like it’s meaningless. The kind of venture I’m proposing wouldn’t be risky-”

 

“It would,” Kazuya said flatly. “Which corporations were you thinking of entering into a partnership with?”

 

“That’s confidential, and it’s not even been decided, it’s just an idea I’m floating-”

 

“Vectrocorp? The Mishima Zaibatsu supply over seventy percent of their territory with fresh water. All I have to do is _whisper_ that we’d cut off that pipeline and they’d turn on you like a pack of dogs. What about Brikhauser? I heard the CEO is in Munich with her family. She likes the skiing holidays there and takes a train into the Alps to the family chalet. Every train out of Munich is run by Deutsche Bundesbahn. Deutsche Bundesbahn are a subsidiary company bought out by the Mishima Zaibatsu in ninteen-eighty-six. All it takes is a false signal on that remote snowy stretch of line, and poor CEO, family and all, are definitely out of _The League of Ethical Oil Barons_ or whatever your supergroup’s going to be called. We own _everyone_ , Rocheforte. For all you know, we even own your butler.”

 

“ _S-sebastion!?_ ”

 

“No, I’m kidding, we don’t own your butler. But now that we know you have one…”

 

“A-alright, Mr Mishima, y-you’ve made your point and had your fun.”

 

“Have I?” Kazuya gestured and Chaolan brought a document out of his inside blazer pocket.

 

Rochefort took the document with trembling hands. He turned the pages over carefully, scanning the small print.

 

“This… this contract has changed,” he looked up at Kazuya. Kazuya gave a cold smile and with feigned ignorance said,

 

“Has it?”

 

“There is no end date to review the terms. This locks Rochefort Enterprises into a _b-binding_ agreement with the Mishima Zaibatsu. _Forever_.”

 

“It does also guarantee your independence as your own company though,” Chaolan put in gently, “no buying out or takeovers, no insecurity – the Zaibatsu would be your client for life.”

 

Kazuya took the document from Rochefort’s hand and flipped through to the end where the signature strip lay.

 

“Sign here,” he set the paper down and slammed a pen down on top of it. Rochefort jumped, then swallowed. He picked up the pen and signed.

 

“And we’ll need a second one to keep for ourselves,” Chaolan produced another one, and Rochefort reluctantly signed this too. Chaolan smiled at him, “Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr De Rochefort.”

 

The brothers abandoned their plates and fell into step as they left the buffet hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many Tekken characters and yet a dirth of them to choose from for a pre-Tekken 1 story. Eventually I threw my hands up and decided yes I would be having a cameo from Dragunov's mother. There aren't enough badass ladies in this story anyway. If you want some time-period appropriate Berlin techno here's a [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XKWz62_9nA). I did a lot of unnecessary research into the history of Berlin early 90s techno for this chapter and then only included a fraction of stuff in the story. The first venue was a real place though.


	4. Devils and Saints

Chaolan sat in the armchair next to his dresser, twirling the phone wire in his finger as he listened. He stretched legs clad in teal silk and fiddled with the silver brocade on his royal blue jacket. The tabloid paper lay across his lap.

 

“Columbia University? Thank you so much. And do you happen to have a number that I could reach the university secretary on?” He jotted down a number in the newspaper margins. “Thank-you, what an absolute dream you are. No, not at all, madam. The pleasure was all mine. Really? Well, you’re quite the charmer yourself, good day, my dear.” The graceful smile snapped off Chaolan’s lips as soon as he terminated the call. He put his finger in the dial pad and span it, dialling up the number he’d been given.

 

“Hello, I’m a chief editor just looking to check up on the credentials of a potential employee. Please could you confirm for me that a Mr Randall Miller graduated from Columbia University with a BA in Journalism, and could I please have the year of his graduation.” Chaolan kicked his foot idly in the air and let the coils in the telephone wire snake around his index finger, “‘84 to ‘87? Ceremony late ‘87. Excellent. Thank you. No, that will be all.”

 

His smile wiped off again as he hung up. The next number he dialled was from memory, and he didn’t bother with his fake smile.

 

“Matsuda, it’s Lee. Run our databases. I want to know which corporation currently owns the student debt for Columbia University, years 1984 to 1987 inclusive. Yes, of course while I wait, I’m not just calling because I like the sound of your voice.” Chaolan drummed his fingers impatiently on the dresser. “ExCorp? No, that’s good. I know someone who works in finance there. Get me the number for Ma Xiuying. She should be in the ExCorp folder, but there’s an address book on my desk that will also- you’ve got it? Good. Have some funds ready to clear, I’ll be making a transaction shortly.”

 

He clicked off the call and dialled Ma Xiuying of ExCorp.

 

“Ms Ma, a delight to hear from you again. It’s Lee Chaolan. Mishima Zaibatsu, that’s right,” he gave a silvery laugh, “no, not here to buy your own stock and sell it back to you, that trick only works once, I think. I’m here for something quite trivial actually. I want to purchase off you full ownership of all student fee debt from Columbia University in the United States, for the years 1984 to 1987. Am I being a petty bitch to someone? My dear Ma, you know me so well, of course I am. Now, will you sell it? What will I give you? A backrub to die for when we next meet?” he laughed again, “alright, I’ll mention ExCorp when we’re next thinking of developing property out that way. Not got anything in the Bahamas do you? I’d murder for a little of that tranquillity. Well, hey, reserve it for me and I’ll think about it. Fax some nice pictures through to my office. But do it after hours, my father doesn’t need to know. You’re such a darling. Catch you next time.”

 

He dialled one more number.

 

“Matsuda. Me again. Ma will fax you confirmation. Get her the money and check over the paperwork. As soon as you have the documentation, raise the interest on all unpaid loans three-hundred percent. Did I stutter? Yes, three-hundred. I don’t give a shit, Matsuda. Just do it.”

 

Chaolan clacked the phone back on its stand and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. The world was beginning to feel manageable again. Revenge felt deep and sweet. He pushed on his sunglasses and swept out of his bedroom.

 

Kazuya was sitting in an armed chair at the Zaibatsu Expo stall, one leg crossed lazily over the other as he chatted with potential clients. Chaolan came and stood behind him, resting his hands on the back of the chair.

 

“Is it done?” Kazuya asked when there was a pause in the influx of people demanding his attention.

 

“Mr Miller will certainly think twice about writing ill of the Mishima again.”

 

“I love it when you’re screwing someone over. You have such a delightful tone in your voice.”

 

“And I love it when you compliment me, it makes me feel like a supervillain.”

 

Kazuya flashed him a cruel smile, then returned his attention forwards, awaiting his next attendee.

 

“Are you still thinking of taking part in this tournament tonight?” Chaolan already knew the answer, but he could still hope.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Even after what was written in that article? Those rumours that you take part in underground fights?”

 

“The rumours, in this instance, are correct.”

 

“Kaz,-”

 

“I need this.”

 

Chaolan blinked in surprise. Kazuya was still looking forward. He had a chin propped on one hand and an easy, approachable slouch to his frame. He looked even, calm, in control. His voice was soft and strange by comparison, as though a ventriloquist were speaking:

 

“I need a fucking moment away from all this. Before I have to go back home and explain myself to Father and crush my identity into a submissive-shaped box for him to use as a punching bag for the next month.”

 

Chaolan’s fingers went to to his brother’s shoulders and he squeezed tightly. Pricks of tears slunk treacherously from the corners of his eyes. Chaolan was glad for the sunglasses hiding his face.

 

“Mr Mishima, do you have a moment to talk about the new propulsion system the Mishima Zaibatsu have developed for ground to air missiles?” A man in a charcoal pinstripe suit stepped up to Kazuya, hands folded deferentially, face hopeful.

 

“Of course,” Kazuya said regally and without a trace of emotion, “what would you like to hear about them?”

 

***

 

Kazuya was wrapping his fists and trying to ignore Chaolan sighing next to him on the bench. He looked jarringly out of place in his embroidered knee-length jacket of crushed blue velvet, expensive glasses and immaculately combed hair. The plaster was peeling in the wing of the ex-bunker that was being used as a changing room. Fine reams of dusts cascaded from the ceiling every time there was a loud cheer or feedback on the microphone. There were pock-marks in the concrete floor and brownish smudges that might have been blood.

 

“I don’t know why you insist on doing this,” Chaolan muttered.

 

Kazuya’s face twisted into a half smile. He tested the tightness of his hand wrap, then started on the next one.

 

“You know why.”

 

“Beating up hungry people in forty different countries won’t bring you closer to destroying our father.”

 

“They hone my skill.”

 

“They hone your ego.”

 

“That too.” He wound the wrap in and out his fingers, alternating it with lines across his palm until the material formed a tight glove. “I can’t punch him yet. But I can punch everyone else until then.”

 

“Kaz…”

 

Kazuya tugged his red gloves on over the wraps and tested the air with a few punches. Then he nudged around in his sportsbag with his clumsy mits before giving up.

 

“Light me a cigarette, Chaolan.”

 

“Light me a cigarette, Chaolan, _what?_ ”

 

“Light me a cigarette, Chaolan, now,” Kazuya amended.

 

Chaolan scowled at him, but found the packet, pulled a cigarette out, stood and placed it in his brother’s mouth. He felt around his jacket for a lighter, but before he could get any further, a tall african-american had power-walked into the room, snatched the cigarette out of Kazuya’s mouth and tossed it aside.

 

“Right before a match, Boss?” the man said by way of greeting.

 

Chaolan’s face was a picture of shock. Kazuya scowled, but his irritation gradually lessened. He sighed.

 

“Chaolan, meet Bruce Irvin, an acquaintance of mine who’s recently entered my employment. Bruce, meet my brother.”

 

Bruce was dressed in garishly bright boxing shorts and a loose open shirt revealing tattoos across a well-muscled chest. He towered over Chaolan in his dapper suit.

 

“Charmed,” Chaolan said sourly. “What do you mean _employment_?” he asked Kazuya, “this man works for the Zaibatsu? I’ve never heard of him before, and I’m sure I would have noticed…”

 

“I work for Kazuya,” Bruce stared down at Chaolan and pulled back his shoulders.

 

Kazuya raised an eyebrow, amused by the exchange.

 

“And what is it you do for my brother exactly?” Chaolan addressed Bruce directly as soon as it was clear Kazuya wasn’t stepping in, “other than arranging fights for him and running around in hot pants.”

 

Bruce stepped up into Chaolan’s face, eyes going menacing. Chaolan twisted his silver hair lazily, unintimidated.

 

“Play nicely, Chaolan,” Kazuya said mildly, “Bruce is a friend of mine.”

 

“You have friends?” Chaolan skirted around Bruce’s bulk and put Kazuya between them, “I thought you only had lackeys.”

 

Kazuya gave him a sly knowing look,

 

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, little brother.”

 

“I’m not jealous!” Chaolan spat and immediately folded his arms and seethed in a corner.

 

Kazuya gave a huff of amusement before returning his attention to Bruce.

 

“How are things looking?”

 

“Other rounds of the first heat are finishing up. I got you set up as the last match to give you time to get here.”

 

“And my opponent?”

 

Bruce’s face became unreadable. Kazuya folded his arms and drummed his fingers on his biceps.

 

“Mexican wrestler. Wears a face mask. A full jaguar face mask. He’s some kind of priest. Takes fights all over to win money for an orphanage he set up.”

 

“Are you fucking with me?”

 

“No,” Bruce said testily, although he looked uncomfortable.

 

“A priest out to win money for orphan kids? I’m fucking ended if the press get hold of this.”

 

Chaolan sniggered behind him. Kazuya shot him a look that shut him up.

 

“I didn’t think… it would bother you. You never seemed like the sort to be bothered by this sort of thing in the past,” Bruce said carefully.

 

“It doesn’t bother _me_ , it bothers the vultures out there trying to tear my reputation to shreds. This is ridiculous. Chaolan, sort this out.”

 

“ _Me?”_ Chaolan gestured to himself, “the fuck do you expect me to do?”

 

“Buy him off. Tell him to forfeit and we’ll make a charitable donation to one of his magical orphanages.”

 

Chaolan scowled at him, but then straightened out his coat and stalked out of the bunker.

 

“And don’t set me up with fights that make me look like the devil, there’s this thing called public relations, Bruce. It means pulling the wool over people’s eyes so they think you’re less of a monster than you actually are. Have a little fucking tact.”

 

Bruce ran his thumb over his jawline, looking a little contrite,

 

“I only know about fighting, Boss-”

 

“It’s not that hard, don’t put privileged corporate mobsters in the ring with streetfighting saviour figures, got it?” Kazuya snapped.

 

Bruces mouth tugged slightly in amusement at Kazuya’s description of himself,

 

“Got it.”

 

Kazuya sat back down heavily. He was already beginning to regret coming here. He was too highly strung from the disasters of the last two days. He collected himself back together and inspected his gloves.

 

“Who’s the favourite to win?”

 

Bruce jumped on the subject,

 

“Oh, you’ll hate him. Loud, pushy, American, hair the size of his ego, one of those old drifter types – motorcycles and bravado.”

 

“Now that’s more fucking like it.”

 

“He’s good though, Boss.”

 

“So am I.”

 

“I mean, he’s really good. Might stand a shot.”

 

“Good, I like a challenge. Especially since your tactlessness has robbed me of my first heat fight.”

 

Chaolan stamped back in ten minutes later.

 

“Done?” Kazuya asked.

 

“He didn’t like it.”

 

“But he took it?”

 

Chaolan nodded. He glanced imperiously at Bruce as he did.

 

They wound their way together out of the concrete changing room into warehouse filled with benches arranged like an amphitheatre. A number of floodlights that looked like they’d been stolen off a football pitch glared straight down onto a raised wrestling ring. An overhead board showing the names ‘Mishima K.’ and ‘King’ started to tick over as a blaring megaphone announced the resignation of King, the ‘Beast Priest’, giving an automatic win to Kazuya. A dissatisfied crowd spread across the four levels of benches booed at the lack of action.

 

“Listen to them, they love you almost as much as the folk back at the arms convention.” All Chaolan’s energy seemed to have been drained, leaving only a bitter sarcastic version of him behind. Kazuya merely raised an eyebrow and sat down next to him, a towel hung over his shoulders. Bruce sat on his other side, large tattooed limbs folding until he only slightly dwarfed Kazuya. His eyes were fixed on the announcement board.

 

“Oh.”

 

Kazuya’s gaze followed his. _‘Mishima K.’ vs ‘Irvin B.’._

 

“You entered the tournament?” Kazuya turned to Bruce.

 

“I wasn’t gonna fly all the way round the world just to set up a fight for _you_. I want in on the action! Was just banking on that match-up not coming up immediately.” Bruce looked uncomfortable, “So… uh, do I have to forfeit too?”

 

“Why would you have to forfeit?”

 

Bruce shot him a look,

 

“Well, are you gonna fire me if I beat you?”

 

“You’re not going to beat me.” Kazuya sat back. Once over the shock of the announcement, a fight with Bruce sounded like just the sort of challenge he needed to occupy his pent up energy. He could see the disapproval in Chaolan’s face out the corner of his eye.

 

“I ain’t fighting unless I’ve got your word. Job security is worth more to me than one admittedly tempting victory over you.”

 

“Fine, I won’t fire you if you beat me,” Kazuya stood and stretched. The sooner he was hitting things the better. “Now are we going or what?”

 

The discontent in the room shifted as Kazuya and Bruce made their way down to the ring. They vaulted over the ring fence to streams of applause and excitement as a woman with a megaphone announced them. Kazuya’s senses dimmed and the holler of noise became a muted mass beyond the red fence. White floodlights glared off the floor and made it impossible to see the shadowy crowds beyond. The megaphone was blaring in his ear and a microphone somewhere else was clipping. He became aware of small things, like a patch of starlight coming through a skylight far above them, and a steady patter as a leak spattered water onto hard concrete somewhere. The stage under foot was slightly pliant and squeaked slightly as he tested it with his trainers. They were a comfortable pair and the only casual shoes he’d allowed himself to bring with him. He wondered faintly if they’d stain if he got blood on them. Then the announcer was standing in front of him and Bruce was looking at him with wild eyes, like he had the first time one of Kazuya’s militias had found him wandering the wilds. Kazuya had a number of loyal heavily militarised corps drifting about various cities in his homeland. On paper they were old-school style enforcers ensuring the less legal side of Mishima business went down without a hitch. Neither Heihachi nor anyone else was meant to know quite how well armed and trained they were. Once an amnesiac Bruce Irvin had met them, he either needed to join them or be silenced. Luckily the man had accepted the first option before Kazuya ever mentioned the second.

 

“Keep it clean,” the compere was shouting down her megaphone, “no below the belt dirty fighting!” then she squeezed out of the ring fence and a bell rung and the crowd roared.

 

Kazuya tossed his towel into one corner and cricked his neck. Bruce was already in stance, fists raised in an outward-facing guard, front leg tapping the ground like an impatient horse. Kazuya kept an eye on that leg as he raised his own guard, he knew it had a habit of propelling kicks out of nowhere.

 

“Ready, Boss?” Bruce fixed him with that unwavering stare, already trying to pick apart his stance for openings.

 

“There are no bosses in the ring, Bruce. Only winners and losers.”

 

A grin split Bruce’s usually hard face. He tilted his head in acceptance. Then the grin was gone and there was only concentration.

 

Bruce came in light, testing a punch between them. Kazuya watched him gauge the distance, sidestepping to keep Bruce before him. He frowned slightly. Bruce wasn’t closing the distance despite still being out of reach. That meant- he brought his cover up high and blocked a full round house kick to the head that came off Bruce’s back leg, then the front leg came in with a flying knee. Kazuya lifted a knee and blocked it, covering his face as jab and straight punch followed through. He could feel Bruce trying to get in close, pull in for a clinch which would favour his size, strength and style. Kazuya drew back enough to put in a powerful front kick, ramming into Bruce’s chest and forcing him to hop back and gain his balance. His longer legs gave him an advantage in range over Kazuya, while the tight knit of his Muay Thai meant he was lethal in close. Kazuya set his teeth.

 

He held his guard loose. He’d have to play by the tactics Chaolan used on him then. Speed and deception. Bruce was hunched over in his guard, hulking shoulders hugged high to guard his neck. His arms were tense and his front legs was tapping the ground between them. Kazuya came in fast with another front kick. Bruce brought his knee across him and blocked it, then brought an elbow down on Kazuya’s head. Kazuya ducked low, wary of coming close to those knees, but hoping the surprise move would give him a second. He came back up fast with a spinning uppercut, snapping into Bruce’s jaw. Bruce staggered back, head reeling. He kept his guard high despite his disorientation. Kazuya pressed his advantage and followed through with a series of punches. Bruce met them all with his guard, gradually regaining his footing as he did. He threw back one punch of his own and the force of it was enough to send Kazuya spinning.

 

Kazuya backed off. _Speed not force,_ he thought to himself again, _speed not force_. _Like it’ll have to be for Heihachi._ That thought snapped him back into focus. He felt more than saw the next kick. Bruce brought his back leg forward in a knee that closed the distance, then his next knee came in straight for Kazuya’s chest. Kazuya caught it, landed one punch on the opposite side of Bruce’s chest to ruin his balance, then swept his other leg through. Bruce came down like a tree and Kazuya was on him in a second, pounding his face with punches. That irritating guard was still there even on the ground and before Kazuya had landed a good blow there was a foot in his stomach that cleared him off the floor and pushed him a good metre away. That gave Bruce all the space he needed to get back up and stalk the ring again.

 

There was energy behind his step this time. Buoyant. Excited. Irritated. Kazuya waited for Bruce to make his move. Bruce’s front leg came up, turned and slammed into Kazuya’s side. It snapped back and came again, and again, and again each time with power enough to swing Kazuya wildly to his left. As soon as Kazuya grabbed the leg, Bruce jumped into the grab, using it to propel his other knee into Kazuya’s chest. Then Kazuya knew he was in trouble. A clinch came hard around his neck, as Bruce’s arms locked about his neck and hung on his head. He got his arms between his face and Bruce’s knees, preventing those strikes from smashing into his skull. _Fuck,_ was the only coherent thought he could think, because the lock on his head was tight and the power in those knees was ploughing into his forearms. Kazuya stepped into the clinch, closing the space between them and latching his arms behind Bruce’s back, taking away the opportunity for those knees to come at him. He planted his feet, took a low horse stance and heaved Bruce’s entire body up into the air before dumping him on the ground. He got one solid kick into Bruce’s rib cage before the surprised man rolled over and bounced back up.

 

Kazuya retreated, using the precious moments to right his head and catch his breath. Bruce barely looked like he’d been working. Kazuya rolled his shoulders, he could feel the places in his side where he’d taken Bruce’s kicks and Chaolan’s the day before. He expelled his breath, then drew it back in slowly, tightening his stomach muscles and raising his fists. He kept his eyes on Bruce’s chest where he could see the movement of all his limbs, but focussed on counting the rhythm of that stamping front foot. Stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, back, stamp, stamp – Kazuya powered forward, while that leg was airbourne, but it snapped forward and caught him in the chest, forcing him back like his lungs had been stepped on. He snarled and spat as the distance opened up between them again.

 

He took a higher guard with his fists like Bruce’s and came in more slowly. That front kick came up again and he blocked it with a knee. He let his guard widen a little and Bruce punched straight through, left-right. Kazuya brought his forearms together, crushing Bruce’s punches into his block, then he rolled up the forearms with a series of strikes that went for vital points – until his fist clipped Bruce’s jaw. He saw that flicker that meant he’d grazed the knockout point. Bruce seemed aware of his trouble and brought a knee into Kazuya’s side. Kazuya took with a grunt, but didn’t let up. He locked up one of Bruce’s arms and kept turning him so that he other arm couldn’t get a shot in. He put another solid punch into Bruce’s face and took another knee to his side for his efforts. Bruce pulled back his head for a headbutt to disrupt that lock but Kazuya pounded his fist into that point on his jaw again. Flesh went slack all around him. There was a sound blurred by sweat and lights and din and suddenly Bruce wasn’t standing any more. He was a pile of limbs on the ground. Kazuya took a step back, breathing hard. There was a moment’s quiet, then uproar all around him. A crowd burst into cheers. Lights were moving. A megaphone was blaring. The compere was vaulting back into the ring holding his arm aloft declaring him the winner. Bruce was out cold on the ring floor.

 

Kazuya picked up his towel and water bottle from his corner. He vaguely thought he should see to Bruce, but it looked like a couple of people were bringing him round. He drank deeply and pulled apart the ring fence, squeezed through and dropped to the ground. He tousled his hair, not caring that he might be messing up the gel. He ran his hand down his face and aimed for where he’d last seen Chaolan. He’d been vaguely hoping his brother would be at the edge of the ring ready to enthusiastically regale him with his praises. He put that image from his mind. It was childish and stupid. Before he got back to his seat he was confronted with a large obstacle. A man as tall as Bruce stood before him with a thick muscled bare chest and a full leopard face mask. Kazuya stared sullenly up into the open leopard mouth, wondering faintly where he was meant to look for eye contact.

 

“You fight well,” the luchador said to him in English almost as accented as Kazuya’s. “You have an honesty behind your attacks. At one point I was worried you cared only for prestige and to win when Señor Lee came over to me earlier, but I can see now that you have personal integrity – all of your spirit goes into your fight.” Kazuya was caught off guard, unsure what to say. The luchador nodded once more, mask obscuring all his emotion and leaving Kazuya only with his tone of voice to go on, “I am glad there are still people like you in the world,” he went on, “I had long grown to believe that men with power were capable of nothing but corruption and an obsession with more power.” Kazuya stared at him, unsure if the man was now mocking him. His senses were still in overdrive from the fight and he could feel his heartbeat only just starting to find its old pace. The wrestler seemed to sense Kazuya’s unease and clarified for him, “Señor Lee explained that my case was an unusual one that was personal to you. I would not, of course, had forfeit the match otherwise: the product of my labour is worth more to me than a corporate buy off, Señor Mishima. But Señor Lee explained his background, and I believe we see eye to eye on this matter.”

 

Kazuya had an uncomfortable feeling growing in his chest. He glanced over to where his brother sat in the stalls, chin resting on his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His glamorous clothes looked out of place in the run-down warehouse, but his easy mannerisms did not.

 

“Yes… indeed,” Kazuya said carefully. The discomfort wedged itself more firmly in his stomach. The match was fading from the forefront of his thoughts as he took full stock of the slump in his brother’s posture. “What exactly did he say to you?”

 

“That he was your brother by adoption, and had been taken into your family as an orphan himself. That he and you were close, and you care for him, and that you expressed reservations about fighting against someone who was here seeking to do good for people like him. That you had asked him to tender your resignation, but that he instead had come to me and asked me to forfeit so that you might continue in the tournament. And that your company would make a donation to a number of charities after being reminded again and confronted by the reality of poverty and hunger in the lives of so many children still out there who did not have Señor Lee’s good fortune.”

 

Kazuya swallowed. He gave a slightly strained smile,

 

“Indeed,” he said again, feeling like that cardboard cutout Mishima Heihachi standing back at the expo. “I’m glad we could come to an arrangement, Mr King.” His eyes wandered back to Chaolan as he spoke. “I wish you all the best in your honourable endeavours. I will personally ensure that the Mishima Zaibatsu gives generously to some suitable charities. Thank you for your understanding.” He gave a curt bow and excused himself.

 

He made his way quickly between the rows of benches. There were a few cheers and some legs moved to allow him through. He ignored everything as he went and sat next to Chaolan. Bruce had been helped off the stage and was sitting heavily in a foldaway chair with a cold compress pressed to his chin and plastic bottle in the other hand. The ring before them was being hosed down for the next fight. The floodlights caught the water and the jets briefly looked bright gold.

 

“I owe you an apology,” Kazuya said abruptly.

 

Chaolan glanced sideways at him then looked forward.

 

“Hm? Not like you to offer one so freely. Why, what have I done to deserve this honour?”

 

“The… matter that was dealt with earlier. Orphanages and the like. The way I dealt with it was… insensitive.”

 

Chaolan stiffened, but his voice stayed light,

 

“You’re always insensitive, Kaz, no one’s surprised by that and no one expects an apology for it.”

 

“I’m sorry.” This time Chaolan blinked and looked at him. “Sometimes I forget that there was a time before you were my brother. I wasn’t thinking when I asked you to deal with this. It was callous of me.”

 

“I was the best person to send,” Chaolan said, just a little coolly. “I’m always good at presenting you in a good light.”

 

“The wrestler told me you said we were close, and that my reservation over fighting him came out of my concern for you.”

 

“I told him what he wanted to hear,” Chaolan’s voice was terse. Kazuya could see he was glancing away and embarrassed.

 

“I do care for you, Chaolan,” Kazuya insisted.

 

“Kaz, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t bother me.”

 

“It does bother you. It bothers you a lot. You wish I was kinder, more open, that I cared about more than just my ambition, that I appreciated you more-”

 

Chaolan turned to him sharply with a fierce look in his eye,

 

“Kaz, I didn’t say that stuff to King because I made it up. And neither did I say it so that you could parrot it back to me guiltily. People look at you and see only the person you’ve had to become to withstand the shit you’ve grown up with. It annoys me that they can’t see the cage you live in because it’s so expensively decorated. There isn’t an easy way to express to people the things you’ve done for me. It doesn’t look like their conventional sort of kindness – like the priest who helps orphan kids sort – and it pisses me off that they can just write stuff in a newspaper like you’re some kind of monster and Heihachi isn’t. You are who you are, and who you are is the only kind of person who could have come out the end of twenty-one-years living under the roof of that man. And no one can see that. No one can see the Kazuya _I_ can see. It’s true we don’t always get on, and that sometimes you can be a real fucking dick, and yeah of course who doesn’t wish their brother was a little kinder, but I’m not going to whine about it because when it comes down to it you have my back when things are tough and that’s what actually matters. So fuck anyone who says otherwise.”

 

Chaolan’s breath was coming short and wisps of his hair fluttered in time with his anger. He swivelled his eyes forward and tightened the hands that were folded together before him. Kazuya regarded him slowly. There was a long drawn out silence between them. The impatience of the crowd droned beyond their cocoon, along with the click of the flip boards above keeping track of scores, the hiss of the hose jetting down the arena, and the crackle of microphone feedback as someone tested it.

 

“You give me too much credit,” Kazuya said softly. “I might have been worthy of your defence at some point. But I am no King with his noble ends. Everyone has a sad story they can blame for their choices if they wish. Perhaps mine is more difficult than others, but I suspect not. At some point we must accept that we are who we’ve chosen to be. If we let demons in, we must not be surprised when they possess us.”

 

“Fuck that.” Chaolan still glowered forward, as if trying to set fire to the arena with his eyes alone.

 

“Your faith in me is flattering, but do not worry,” Kazuya’s eyes lit with a strange light, “I regret nothing. Every step in my life has made me stronger. There will come a day when I return to the forsaken clifftop where this all began and I will break my father. I will cast him down and watch as his broken body falls. The way _mine_ did when he did not expect me to crawl back up and live another sixteen years out of _spite._ Then the Mishima Zaibatsu will be mine. The world will be mine. And everyone who opposes me will burn.”

 

Chaolan glanced at him. Kazuya blinked as if waking from a dream and caught Chaolan looking at him.

 

“Too much?” he asked.

 

“Yeah, just a fucking little,” Chaolan returned.

 

Kazuya gave a sly half smile and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

 

“I’ll get you that secretary job so that you can stand by my side and watch the flames. I’m going to go check on Bruce.”

 

He stepped up onto a bench then down onto the next one in the row in front, using them as steps down to the arena. The light winked off the sweat still gleaming on his scarred torso as people parted to let him past. Chaolan felt cold as he watched Kazuya leave. There was a certain kind of inevitability to Kazuya’s path as he walked down to the ring. For a moment Chaolan saw his brother’s life set like those descending benches before his feet, always leading him down and down towards fated confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised too late King is a lot of fun to write and the only window of light in this story. Some day maybe I'll write a story where I get to give him more dialogue and moments to shine.
> 
> Thanks very much for the comments and kudos! It's really encouraging seeing people enjoy this. I've not written for Tekken before, so I'm glad the veteran Tekken writers think I'm doing an ok job so far, your support means a lot to me.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://erenaeoth.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/erenaeoth).


	5. Calling a Truce

Kazuya passed Bruce a new bottle of water. Bruce took the cold compress off his chin, wincing as he did. He necked back a few gulps before setting the bottle down on the bench between them.

 

"For sure thought I had you," Bruce looked sideways at him.

 

"I was sure you did too at one point."

 

"Did not expect you to lift me up to get out of that clinch."

 

"Why?" Kazuya's eyes twinkled, daring Bruce to bring up the fact that he had a good four inches and several pounds in bodyweight on Kazuya.

 

Bruce raised his eyebrows then let his gaze wander elsewhere,

 

"Guess now that the fight's over, you're back to being the boss again, huh?"

 

"You guess correctly."

 

Bruce tilted his head and sighed. He started unwrapping his hands.

 

"Not had a good fight like that in ages. Or at least I think I haven't, anyway…" Bruce's recollections were still hazy when it came to mid-term memory. A plane crash had left him amnesiac and even now fractions of the past escaped him.

 

"We can do it again some time. You're a good opponent and I need more sparring partners. I can read all Chaolan's tells, so a little variety would be welcome."

 

"Your brother?" Bruce looked up at where the silvery haired young man sat in his fine suit, smoking and blowing his fringe out of his eye whilst tapping expensive shoes to an invisible rhythm. "He fights?"

 

"Of course. He's a Mishima."

 

"Didn't mean any disrespect. He just… looks like he might handle the accounts or something."

 

"He does." Kazuya gave a faint smile in the face of Bruce's obvious confusion, "but he also has a mean _yoko geri jodan_."

 

"A what now?"

 

"You'll know it when it hits you. Like lightening out of the blue. Straight to the head. You'll wake up five minutes later. A bit like just now in our match." He gave a sly smile.

 

Bruce frowned and looked up to the oddly ethereal figure of Chaolan. The rich colours of his suit glimmered with the sheen of silver embroidery.

 

"Is he always like that?"

 

"Dressed to impress?"

 

"Melancholy."

 

The amusement snapped off Kazuya's face and a shadow passed over his features. He became brooding and contemplative.

 

Bruce hesitated, unsure if he'd crossed a line. He tested the water between them.

 

"You two had an argument or something?"

 

Kazuya stood abruptly. Bruce flinched. Kazuya took a second, then folded his arms,

 

"Now that you've been eliminated from the tournament you can get on with the duties I brought you here to do. Attend my corner of the ring in the next fight. Did you bring anything proper to wear with you?"

 

Bruce was taken aback at the rapid change in tone and topic.

 

"I… I have a casual shirt and some slacks."

 

"Find a tie. I want more muscle at the expo tomorrow, so require your presence."

 

A frown twitched on Bruce's brow,

 

"I haven't done any… uh… front of house work for you before. I wouldn't want to say the wrong thing, or-"

 

"You won't be saying anything. Come to my hotel lobby at nine o'clock tomorrow."

 

"How am I gonna find a tie by nine AM!?"

 

Kazuya gave him a withering look then left, still sour over the comment about Chaolan's mood.

 

He meandered to his back brother's side again to watch the next fight. He tried to lighten the air between them a little as the second semi-final match was announced.

 

"What did you think of my uppercut back there?" He was gentle in his tone and movements, eyebrows a sketchy charcoal rather than the imposing lines they forged for everyone else.

 

"Half-hearted compared to yesterday's. Either that or your new best friend has a face made of steel." Chaolan was still flat and devoid of tell-tale signs of happiness.

 

"Just warming up those knock-out points for later."

 

"Nearly got your head kicked in too."

 

Kazuya shot him an irritated look. Chaolan's face was impassive. Kazuya gave a huff and turned his gaze back to the ring where the compere was sitting astride a ring post, megaphone in hand, bigging up the next act.

 

Kazuya frowned,

 

"What do I have to do to make you stop being furious with me? Is this still about my comments about orphanages and that fighting priest? Or is it Bruce Irvin? You don't like him? You want me to go fire him? I'll go do that."

 

"No you wouldn't."

 

"Sure I would," Kazuya stood up.

 

"Sit down, you ass."

 

Kazuya sat down. Chaolan gave a heavy sigh. He turned and rested his forehead slightly against Kazuya's shoulder. Kazuya relaxed as Chaolan returned to his usual tactile behaviour.

 

"I'm not furious. I'm… afraid of the way you sound sometimes. The way you talk about the future – about Father and the Zaibatsu… And I never really know how much you're joking when you talk about ruling the world. These aren't just words you can throw around. There are people out there who don't like the way you talk… who don't like the picture you paint of the future. I wish you'd stop saying and doing crazy impulsive shit that's going to get you killed. I know you've got all these plans and schemes, and if they fall through…"

 

"They're not going to fall through."

 

"I'm still afraid, OK? Your actions have consequences. And not just for you. You know what would happen if something… if he found out what you're up to? How long do you think he'd keep me around if he finally took you out the picture? He's always made it clear I exist to improve your technique, as some kind training equipment to hone your skill."

 

"Stop being dramatic. If that's all you were, he wouldn't be sending you to the US to study at their universities, would he."

 

That had been the wrong thing to say. Chaolan pulled away from him and looked pointedly elsewhere, refusing to speak to him. Kazuya glowered and ground his teeth. He never managed to say the right thing for long. How could he when most of the time the words he spoke were little more than sparks he allowed to escape the volcanic furnace that burned inside him. He allowed himself to make faint impressions on the world, keeping his touch light to avoid arousing unwanted attention too soon. But he always knew change was coming. A deep smouldering violence was roosting inside him. One day it would be free. He would be free. And those snapshot visions he shared with Chaolan would not come close to the true magnitude of his rage.

 

His attention was stolen by the contestants entering the ring. Two young men bursting with energy were hopping about under the floodlights, stretching, tapping gloves, passing jokes between each other. One had a brilliant shock of gold hair gelled straight up so that he looked like some kind of preening bird, and a towel over his shoulders coloured like the star-spangled banner. The other was in gaudy silk embroidered Chinese trousers and bare chested. Kazuya stared at them. These mixed style open competitions drew in all sorts of characters, but he'd not quite seen this level of eccentricity before.

 

" _These_ are the other semi-finalists?" escaped him before he remembered Chaolan wasn't talking to him. Chaolan held a stubborn silence.

 

The larger than life blond, introduced as Paul Phoenix, took a walk around the ring hailing the crowds and throwing his arms out to receive their applause. Kazuya folded his arms and watched in distaste.

 

"Apparently he's the favourite to win," he nudged Chaolan. Kazuya never initiated contact – it was a small gesture of peace, but received no response.

 

Kazuya frowned and looked back to the ring. The fight had started, with both fighters dancing around each other, predicting each others footwork and sizing up the space between them. The smaller man of Chinese descent, Marshall Law, took a higher, lighter stance, shifting his weight back and forth. Kazuya's attention wandered. _Was it because I mentioned him leaving for the States? Or because I didn't say I'd be careful? Or because I implied I didn't care if he'd come out the worse because of my actions? Or because I didn't take him seriously?_ _Did I scare him when I talked about burning everything?_ That was a lot of things he supposed. He looked up as Law chained together three kicks into a hard punch combination. Phoenix's powerful arms blocked each of the kicks while the force behind his return punches reminded Kazuya of the power disparity in his own fight with Bruce. That could be deceptive though, as Bruce had found to his loss. He found himself silently rooting for the smaller man, smiling a little coldly as he leapt back from a roundhouse kick and came in with a flying kick of his own, followed by a triple punch and a _kiai_ that filled the room. Kazuya shifted in his seat. Chaolan's silence next to him was like a gravity well, dragging in his attention and concentration. He watched vaguely as Law ducked sidelong out the way of an uppercut only to take another round house kick to the leg, caving in his stance and leaving him open to Paul's next attack. Kazuya shook his head. He should be following this more closely. He would have to fight the winner of this match. He should be taking this opportunity to analyse moves, look for weakness and-

 

"You're distracting me." Kazuya glowered at Chaolan. "I have to watch this." Chaolan said nothing. "Look at me," Kazuya ordered with enough anger in his voice to make his brother look up. "Stop doing that."

 

"I'm not doing anything," Chaolan said. It was his quiet voice, used for placating Heihachi. That made Kazuya's stomach lurch.

 

"What is your problem?!" he snapped, not conveying at all the uncertainty and guilt he felt inside.

 

"Nothing, Kazuya. Do you want me to leave?"

 

He didn't want Chaolan to leave, but he didn't want to say as much either. Chaolan's weight shifted as he made to get up.

 

"Stay," was the only thing Kazuya said. His voice was quieter and more real. That seemed to be enough. Chaolan's posture changed – his shoulders sloped a little and some of their stiffness slid away. His body let out a pent of breath. Sometimes he was a total enigma to Kazuya. Content that at least some of the moment had been diffused, Kazuya returned his attention to the stage.

 

There was a surge from the seats about him as people stood and cheered. Paul Phoenix was standing alone, fist raised high in victory. Law wasn't even in the ring with him.

 

"Fuck," Kazuya stood up to get a look at where the other man had gone, "what happened? I missed it."

 

"Went flying," Chaolan supplied.

 

"How?! They were evenly matched!"

 

Chaolan shrugged and lit up another cigarette. The smell was painfully tempting and tugged at Kazuya's senses. Bruce was right though, smoking and fighting didn't go together. A cigarette appeared in front of his face, pinched between Chaolan's slender fingers. Kazuya shook his head.

 

"That's a first." Chaolan put the spare cigarette behind his ear.

 

"Let's go meet them."

 

"Huh?"

 

"These two fighters. They're from the US, right? Might pay to know a few people before you get carted off there."

 

"The US is huge, Kaz. Knowing _two_ people isn't going to help."

 

"Sure it is. If you like them, we can manipulate a few things, get certain university prospectuses on his desk. You know how it goes – make him think he had the idea first."

 

"Can't you make him think it's his idea to let me stay at home?"

 

Kazuya gave him a look, then stood up and jerked his head towards the ring. Chaolan reluctantly got up, following him with heavy steps.

 

Marshall Law was scowling on a bench with a bust lip, arguing with the violently hairstyled Paul Phoenix. As Kazuya approached their argument vanished into the rafters and was replaced by a shifty silence.

 

"Hey!" Paul put his hands on his hips, "nice fight back there, Mishima! You sure showed Mr Muay Thai a good time!"

 

Kazuya frowned and beckoned Chaolan forward with a hand.

 

"I missed most of your fight, unfortunately. It was over quite quickly," Kazuya said.

 

"It was, wasn't it," Marshall glowered at Paul. Paul rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

 

"Was it meant to last a little longer?" Chaolan stepped in, eyes glittering with interest. Kazuya breathed a silent sigh of relief. Sometimes the easiest way to snap Chaolan out of depression was to push him into strangers. His mask of easy charisma slid back into place in front of necessity.

 

"It wasn't meant to be _two minutes_ , who remembers a fight that's two minutes long!" Marshall huffed. Paul pulled a face of realisation, and Marshall caught on, turning back quickly. "Not that is was _meant_ to be anything. It's just a normal fight after all – haha, you never know what the outcome is going to be..."

 

Kazuya folded his arms and his expression blackened. Chaolan gave a wry grin.

 

"I like these guys," he flipped his hair and looked back at Kazuya.

 

Kazuya was sure Chaolan chose most of his acquaintances based on how much they pissed him off.

 

Marshall wiped a slither of blood from his lip and stood, offering a hand to Chaolan.

 

"Marshall Law."

 

Chaolan took the hand,

 

"Chaolan Lee."

 

"You a fighter, Lee?"

 

"Sometimes. But not today. I'm here to watch my brother lose to Paul Phoenix."

 

Kazuya bristled, Marshall laughed, and Paul puffed up his chest and put his hands on his hips.

 

"Damn straight!" Paul announced.

 

Kazuya gave them all a tired deadened look,

 

"Excuse me," he gave a thin, empty smile and left.

 

"That's your brother?" Marshall asked.

 

"Not much family resemblance, I know, but we're the same twisted and bitter inside, I assure you," Chaolan said brightly.

 

"Ah," Marshall gave a slight smile, unsure how to respond to that.

 

"So…" Paul cracked his knuckles, "any tips on fighting your brother?"

 

"Mr Phoenix," Chaolan gave a cryptic smile, "I want to see you beat him, but I'm not going to help you win. He's my brother, after all."

 

Paul's face fell. Marshall gave a confused smile. There was another slightly awkward pause. Marshall squinted and then broke the moment by pointing at the brocade pattern on Chaolan's royal blue coat.

 

"That's a Chinese design, right?"

 

"Yes!" Chaolan's eyes lit up, "I had it tailor-made especially. I wanted a little something to honour my old home."

 

"My grandmother was just the same – always instilled in me – be proud of where your family comes from, Marshall, and I always said, where, the U.S. of A?" he laughed easily, "but seriously, she's the reason I chose this get up for my tournament fighting – feel this – that's pure silk." Chaolan pinched the soft material between his fingers, he made an appreciative noise. "And see that design-?"

 

"Are you guys seriously comparing clothes?" Paul tapped an enormous boot on the floor, "because if you are, how can you _not_ talk about _my_ style!" He pushed his way into the conversation and tugged his biker jacket, "This leather is half an inch thick! And look at this! Look at these lapels!" He turned the inside of his jacket towards them to show off the American flag colours lining it. "This was an absolute bargain I got at this biker fest way down south."

 

"Where? Czechoslovakia?" Chaolan put in coolly.

 

Marshall and Paul stared at him for a moment, then Marshall's face changed in realisation.

 

"It's a joke!" Marshall shoved Paul, "cause we're in Germany, dumbass."

 

"Don't call me dumb," Paul glowered, "I knew it was a joke. I just never heard of any place called… uh, that."

 

Chaolan sat down next to Marshall and crossed his legs. He flicked away the stub of his finished cigarette,

 

"Not interested in finding out anything about where you are, Mr Phoenix?"

 

"Call me Paul. And nah. Just here for a fight. Marshall and I are gonna win big this time. The cash prize here is gonna cover the cost for this other US tournament we got our eyes on, and _that_ tournament is gonna give us-" he kissed his fingers, "sweet sweet American dollars."

 

"You're planning on splitting the winnings from here?"

 

Another awkward silence. Marshall glared at Paul, then looked back slowly to Chaolan.

 

"You… uh… you going to tell on us?"

 

Chaolan shrugged,

 

"Doesn't make any difference to me. Or to Kaz either. He's not in this for the money. And you have to win first, remember."

 

"Right!" Paul punched his fist into his open palm. "Gonna take this rich kid down a peg. No offence."

 

"None taken," Chaolan said mildly. "Someone needs to, now that King has forfeited."

 

"Ah, kind of glad about that actually," Paul pulled a sheepish expression. "When I heard what he wanted to do with any winnings, it kinda made me feel crap. No one wants to take away from any kids roughing it or anything."

 

"Indeed," Chaolan said, just a little thinly.

 

"But hey, we're kids in need of cash too, Paul," Marshall put his hands behind his head and tested his split lip with his tongue."

 

"You're nineteen, Marshall."

 

"Basically still a kid. Basically in need of those smackeroos." Marshall looked over at Chaolan, "I'm going to have a martial arts school of my own some day. Rows of adoring students. So much money I'll eat my favourite foot every day, _and_ have a different pair of socks for every day of the week. Wait scratch that – a different pair of _silk pants_ for every day of the week – wait, no every day of the _month!_ " He grinned, "how about you, any plans for the future?"

 

Chaolan blinked at the question. He'd never thought about his future. It wasn't really his to decide.

 

"I… suppose I…" his lip twitched slightly, "I plan to go to the States for university. To study Business."

 

"University! Nice," Marshall kicked Paul in the shin, "knew this guy was a clever one. Throwing around words like Czechoslovakia, he's marked for the high life." He smiled back at Chaolan, "Business! Got a lot of respect for that. Going to school to learn how to make the green stuff. Hey, if you end up round our way, maybe you can pass on some tips, if you're not too busy with all those frat kids."

 

"That would be most agreeable. I brush up well, but I'm from the street originally. I've always gotten along better with people who aren't surrounded by privilege."

 

"You? From the street? Paul, look at this guy, there's hope for us yet. What we gotta do to get what you got?"

 

"Be adopted by Mishima Heihachi," Chaolan didn't manage to make his face smile.

 

There was another silence.

 

"Oh shit, you're not joking," Paul said eloquently.

 

Marshall scooted to the edge of his seat.

 

"That… that guy. Your brother. That's uh… that's Heihachi Mishima's son?"

 

"Did the board flashing _Mishima K_ not give it away?" Chaolan wished he hadn't brought up Heihachi's name.

 

"Dude, I just thought maybe it was a common name or something. I didn't think it would be _that_ Mishima. I thought that family were all big business mafia types, why would they be fighting at a-"

 

"Paul, do you want chill with that attitude, Mr Lee here is Mishima too…"

 

"Oh shit," Paul scratched the light stubble on his chin, and looked back at the ring. "Well, now I just got to beat this Mishima K. What's his name again?"

 

"Kazuya."

 

"Yeah, this Kazuya is going down for sure. Then I'm gonna be famous. They'll pay _me_ to enter tournaments when they hear I took down the son of a corporation boss. Hey-" Paul's expression flickered, "what's the deal with that? I'm not gonna get like… ninjas on my ass if take this Kazuya down, am I?" he gave an uncertain laugh.

 

Marshall turned to Chaolan expectantly. Chaolan hesitated. There wasn't really a precedent for such things. Kazuya usually won his matches. It was unlikely he'd pursue a vendetta beyond the ring. Unlikely but not impossible. He settled for an ambiguous smile.

 

"Probably not," was all he said. Then he stood and shook Paul's hand, "good luck in your next fight."

 

"Traitor," Kazuya said, when Chaolan sat down next to him a few minutes later.

 

"Making American friends like you advised, oh wise one."

 

"Looked very cosy."

 

"Now who sounds jealous?"

 

Kazuya glared at him. Then folded his arms and looked back towards the ring where Paul was windmilling his arms and cricking his neck.

 

"I'm going to annihilate this irritating man."

 

"He seems kind of nice to me. Not as bad as the outfit makes out."

 

" _Annihilate_ him," Kazuya repeated.

 

A smiled escaped Chaolan. Kazuya was so predictable when he was irate.

 

The board above the ring began to flick through letters to announce the next fight. Kazuya stood before it had settled.

 

"And get yourself down to my corner of the ring with Bruce. You're here with me, not just some bystander in the crowd. If it goes to round two you better have some pretty fucking incisive analysis of this joker, and not just 'he seems kind of nice'."

 

Chaolan covered another amused smile playing on his face as he followed Kazuya down to the ring. _Phoenix P. vs Mishima K._ flipped up on the board, and the compere leapt into the ring, megaphone in hand, stalking its perimeter and working up the crowd for the final. Bruce was already standing at the foot of the ring with water and a towel.

 

"All ready, Boss?"

 

Kazuya simply shot a cold glare over at Paul who was stretching and flexing and shrugging out of his star spangled biker jacket.

 

"He's ready," Chaolan said, and collapsed into a plastic flip chair pushing his sunglasses further up his nose.

 

Kazuya took a swig of the water, then thrust it back into Bruce's hands and pulled himself up to the stage, then vaulted over the ring fence.

 

Bruce sat down near Chaolan, one seat away.

 

"Uh… Mr Lee?" Bruce started. Chaolan looked over at him through mirror lenses. "I've got a kind of weird question. Can I borrow a tie?"

 

Kazuya watched Paul from under thick dark eyebrows pulled into fierce angular lines. Paul exchanged an extended handshake routine with Marshall, that involved fist bumping and ended with a manly hug. Kazuya's eyes narrowed to thin slits of hate.

 

Paul hauled himself up to the stage and pulled apart the cords in the fence to squeeze through. He smoothed his hair upright in case it had moved out of place, then turned around waved to the crowds. He turned at last to Kazuya,

 

"Hey there, bud!" he grinned, "I'm gonna kick your ass."

 

Kazuya blinked, then his expression became imperious and aloof. He looked over at the compere. All he needed was the word and he would end this fight before it even began.

 

"It's the final you've been waiting for all night ladies, gents and all you other Berlinners! Some of the best from all over the world have joined us tonight, and now we're bringing you the fight you've been waiting all evening to see. Paul Phoenix of the United States of America verses Kazuya Mishima of Japan! We've seen some interesting fights here tonight, and while this might not be the biggest tournament about, let it never be said that there was a dull night to be had in East Berlin! Because that wall never stopped anyone from knowing how to party and how to put on a show! So we've got the world to prove, ladies and gents, and two young fighters in their prime ready to give you some entertainment! There's a cash prize tonight up for grabs of a hundred and fifty thousand marks, generously donated by our very own Brikhauser Corporation! Winner takes all, and I remind you it's a submission or knockout to win a fight and we will be calling time at two minutes per round. You've got three rounds to do your worst, gents. Keep it nice, no permanent injuries, please! Berlin, I give you Paul Phoenix and Kazuya Mishima!"

 

By the end of two rounds there was still no clear winner.

 

Kazuya could feel a tooth loose and his mouth filled with blood every time he wiggled it with his tongue. He sat heavily for the brief seconds at the end of the second round as Chaolan massaged his shoulders and Bruce gave him water.

 

"You need to stop underestimating him," Bruce was saying in his ear, "he's unpredictable and fast. That descending elbow out of nowhere-"

 

"I know," Kazuya said coldly. He'd briefly seen darkness when it connected to his skull. He sat on his stool like it was a throne, legs apart, arms resting on the ring fence, eyeing Paul coldly on the opposite corner of the ring. The shadow of a purple bruise was on Paul's cheekbone where Kazuya had caught him with an uppercut. He felt the wisps of Chaolan's hair tickle his cheek as he leaned close.

 

"Go for a submission," his brother put in. "Hip throw into armbar, or a turn him into a choke, or just a tackle. Get him on the ground and put him in a hold it'll break him to get out of. Stop trying to go for the full knockout. The submission will get you a win anyway."

 

Kazuya frowned but nodded.

 

When the bell rang for the start of the third round Kazuya stood. He had to admit the man before him was good. Much better than he'd anticipated. Every time he thought he'd pinned down Paul's moves, he came in with an athletic kick, or a series of elbows, or an armbar that Kazuya had had to high breakfall out of in order to avoid his arm breaking (or worse, conceding a submission).

 

Kazuya spat out a globule of blood and wiped his mouth.

 

"I'm gonna be famous once I kick your Mishima butt," Paul noted lightly. Despite his amiable tone, Kazuya could see his right eye twitching slightly with the pain in the side of his face, and a slight lumber to his movements that favoured his left side. He'd taken a full roundhouse kick to his floating rib in the last round.

 

Kazuya wove his way forward, ducking and weaving in case an attack came in, watching for those stray kicks and insane elbows. When he was close enough, he dropped low suddenly and came in for a sweeping kick. Paul shifted his weight back quickly, and Kazuya cut up the front leg that wasn't holding the stance. He pulled back and snapped a second kick up high to Paul's face. Paul hammered his arm into the leg to block the kick then ducked and brought a rising elbow straight into Kazuya's face. Kazuya had to fling himself out the way, upsetting his balance and only just regaining his feet in time to dodge and parry the cross punch that followed it. Kazuya dropped into a horse stance and drove his own elbow into Paul's stomach. The man's mouth made a small 'o' in shock and Kazuya rugby tackled him to the ground, crawled on top of him and began punching his face.

 

"The fucking lock, Kaz!" Kazuya heard Chaolan's voice from the sidelines. The moment was already gone though, Paul had dragged him in close and flipped him over. Kazuya got his lower leg between them and thrust Paul off and away, then quickly leapt back onto his feet. He could hear his brother swearing from the edge of the ring as he and Paul began to circle each other again.

 

Paul's face was a mess from the punches Kazuya had slayed into him. A shallow cut above his eye kept bleeding into his vision, and Paul had taken to tilting his head awkwardly to drain the blood off to once side as he circled Kazuya.

 

The next time Paul came in for a punch, Kazuya slipped to the side, turned into the punch so that his back was up against Paul, grabbed his arm and threw him over his hip. Paul rolled out of the throw and stood up almost immediately, seemingly now aware that Kazuya wanted him on the ground. Kazuya ground his teeth. Paul came back in straight away with another punch, but at the last second dropped his stance planted his fist straight into Kazuya's stomach. The impact went through Kazuya like a shockwave and he felt bile in his mouth. He covered his head to protect from a round punch that followed, then shot out a front kick to give himself breathing space. He tried to steel himself and ignore the pain in his stomach. He snapped a side kick at Paul's head that was blocked, put his foot down and launched into a round kick, put that down and suddenly the pain was all adrenaline and he came in fast, punch, block, an elbow, duck, uppercut. He was blocked, blocked, parried – that uppercut at least took the wind out of Paul, but the man grabbed his arm – slow on it's return after that powerful punch, and locked it between his chest and arm. Kazuya's eyes widened and he resolved his dilemma by headbutting Paul straight in the face – forehead to his nose. He felt Paul stagger back and the white floor splattered with blood. He tightened his fists, refound his guard and came back in swinging, jab, cross, jab – _ding._ The bell rang.

 

For a moment Kazuya considered continuing. He had Paul on the back foot and they both knew it. But time was up, and there was a kind of pride that came with letting his arms slowly drop and seeing the infuriated look on Paul's face.

 

Paul was streaming blood and holding a hand to his nose. He snatched a handkerchief that Marshall handed up from the floor to him and pressed it to his face. It went red in seconds. Kazuya gave him a cold smirk.

 

"Folks that's three rounds with no knockout or submission. By tournament rules that means we've got ourselves a draw. It's not the result you wanted, but what a fight these gents have given you. Let's have big round of applause for our two winners!"

 

Kazuya was aware of the compere lifting his arm into the air and Paul's next to him, though the other was stiffly clutched to his bleeding face.

 

The compere took her megaphone away for a moment.

 

"We'll split the prize money half-and-half and get you a medic, Phoenix," she was all business as soon as she wasn't shouting for the crowd.

 

"Mr Phoenix can have the prize money," Kazuya said nonchalantly, "I don't care about it. He needs it, from the look of his outfit," Kazuya gave another shark-like grin as what was visible of Paul's face reddened with anger, "and besides, he bled more for it." Kazuya pulled himself through the ring fence and dropped to the floor. He was immediately met by a towel and the compliments of Bruce and his brother, leaving a slightly stunned compere and an outraged Paul Phoenix.

 

"This isn't the end for you, Mishima!" Paul shouted over the rising noise of the crowd starting to talk about the match, some already leaving now that the entertainment was over. "Just you wait! Paul Phoenix has never lost a match! Next time we meet – you're toast!"

 

"Did he just say 'toast'?" Bruce pulled a face in Paul's direction, "that guy can fight, but man does he need to work on his act."

 

"Kaz, I told you to go for a fucking pin while you could, but instead you tried to beat the shit out of him," Chaolan was close and all casually irritated cursing whilst he fussed over Kazuya's injuries. Kazuya let him, mostly because he was too tired to complain, but also because it was good to hear Chaolan back to his usual self. He took the cigarette balanced behind Chaolan's ear and someone lit it for him. He breathed in deeply as he was rubbed down.

 

"Alright, I'm good," Kazuya said through the smoke as Bruce waved it out of his face. "Remember nine o'clock tomorrow, Bruce. I'll see you then."

 

Bruce nodded and left, leaving an overprotective Chaolan with free reign over the situation.

 

"Where's your tie?" Kazuya asked through the towel that was ruining his styled hair and rubbing sweat off his bare shoulders.

 

"Instead of watching your fight I was doing a strip tease in the bathroom, must have left it there."

 

"Fuck off, I heard you shouting your shitty advice half way through the round."

 

"Not like you listened. I leant Bruce my tie because he was worried about pissing you off tomorrow."

 

Kazuya made a noise of irritation, but it vanished once Chaolan's fingers started working the tension out of his shoulders. He let his eyes shut and sat smoking and drinking in the after-fight rush of endorphins.

 

"Hey!"

 

Kazuya cracked open an eye. Marshall Law was before him.

 

"Hey!" Marshall said again. His posture was apprehensive, "just wanted to say it was extra cool of you to let Paul take the winnings. Even though I guess it's not much to someone like you. And also, that Paul didn't mean any of that stuff he was shouting back there. He's got no beef with you or your people or anything. So I just wanted to check, we cool?"

 

Kazuya opened his other eye too and was silent for a long moment. He blew out a plume of smoke.

 

"We're _cool_ ," he said, though only Chaolan could pick up his slightly derisive use of the word.

 

"Nice," Marshall grinned, "was a great to meet you, Mr Mishima. And you too, Lee, you should drop us a line when you get to the States. Paul and I don't have much on our hands, so maybe we could show you about. Consider it a favour for the cash prize your brother gave us tonight."

 

"Us?" Kazuya asked lazily.

 

"Urr- Paul, I mean," Marshall said quickly, "anyway. Catch you guys some other time. Great fight! I've never seen anyone draw with Paul before!" Marshall did a quick step back then left as soon as he thought it was polite.

 

Kazuya tilted his head back to catch a glimpse of Chaolan.

 

"Are they partners?"

 

"Only in crime, I think," Chaolan kept working out the knots in Kazuya's shoulders.

 

"They're not very subtle at criminal enterprising."

 

"Perhaps I can pass on a few tips if I meet them in America."

 

Kazuya gave a grin and stood, shaking off Chaolan's hands.

 

"Let's head back to the hotel. And I'm starving. You can choose the food as long as you order."

 

"We already ate, Kaz."

 

"Well, I'm hungry."

 

"Right, so I get to choose the food for the meal only _you_ 're eating."

 

"Your choice not to eat. I'm too tired to argue. Can you get a cab too, and-"

 

"All taken care of. And I'll make sure the food's waiting for us when we get home."

 

Kazuya's eyes had gone pleasantly sleepy. He breathed out the end of his cigarette and gave Chaolan a rare, small smile.

 

"Okay. Thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee bit of Paul and Marshall, who were a lot of fun to write. I enjoyed rewatching all their endings and how their light relief elements doesn't take away from their characters and genuine hopes and dreams. They're a lot of fun to contrast with Kaz and Chaolan who mostly glare, smoke and punch people in this story. Thanks again for reading and for your support!


	6. Waking Monsters

Kazuya woke up abruptly at eight AM. Something was pressing on his mind. Something he'd forgotten. He jumped out of bed, pulled opened the curtains, and grabbed the itinerary for the week. _Zaibatsu Presentation._ He groaned. He took five minutes to press his way through a few repetitions of push-ups, took a quick shower, then checked the clock. He pulled a cigarette out of its packet and lit it up whilst calling room service to send up breakfast. He started rifling through his wardrobe, trying to choose a shirt. He pulled on a pair of trousers that had been laundered while he was out yesterday, then grabbed a shirt at random. Before he'd done it up he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his eyes were shadowy with tired, his lip had a jagged cut running through it from one of Paul's punches, and there were purple bruises swarming across his torso. He cursed and flung open his hotel door, hammering at Chaolan's room.

 

"Chaolan," he called around his cigarette. He pulled the thing out his mouth and shouted louder, "Chaolan!"

 

Chaolan came shuffling to the door, all sleep and askew.

 

"Mmrugh," he said at Kazuya.

 

Kazuya grabbed his arm and dragged him into his room.

 

"Wake up. I need help working out what to wear and what to say at this damn presentation."

 

"Kaz, it's too early, let me sleep."

 

"If I wear the same thing as yesterday does it look lazy? What do I say at this presentation that isn't just the specs of the weapons we brought? I'm not fucking bigging up Heihachi or talking about how great he is. Sort this out, Chaolan, it was the _one_ job I gave you."

 

Chaolan sat himself down on Kazuya's bed. The duvet was puffy under him and it took all his effort not to just collapse back into it and let it envelop him. He caught sight of the dark flickering worry in Kazuya's face.

 

"Someone woke up grouchy." Chaolan stretched and rubbed his eyes. He gave an enormous yawn then slunk over to the wardrobe and began sifting through the clothes. "Alright, get a pen and paper. These are the points you want to cover in your talk."

 

Breakfast arrived whilst they were still preparing. Chaolan ate most of it whilst Kazuya twisted a pen anxiously between his fingers.

 

"I'll just get you to do it, people love it when you talk," he paced back and forth.

 

"They don't need to love it, Kaz, it's all just posturing. And besides, you've got presence. People naturally shut up and listen to you. Just play to your strengths."

 

"Terrify them, you mean?"

 

Chaolan paused with a slice of white bread and marmalade to his mouth, not sure if Kazuya was joking. From the serious expression on his brother's face, he supposed not.

 

"Uh… more like keep them in awe and a little intimidated. Not too frightened though – we don't want them ganging up on us. Keep all that stuff you said to Rochefort to a minimum – none that stuff about the Zaibatsu being the only future and everyone else burning."

 

"Right, ok."

 

"And come eat something. You'll feel better."

 

"I'm not hungry. What am I wearing?"

 

"Not much right now."

 

" _Chaolan_."

 

Chaolan nodded towards a purple suit, with a crisp white shirt and scarlet cravat. Kazuya winced at it.

 

"It's your wardrobe, don't pull that face at me."

 

"When I got it I wasn't thinking of giving speeches in front strangers."

 

"Suck it up. It'll look great anyway. Just stride about and glower and people will think you've hit the height of fashion."

 

"I can do that."

 

"Don't I know it." Chaolan finished his bread, still lazing about in a silk dressing gown. "Bruce will be waiting for you downstairs. I'll join you in a bit. And stop worrying, think of it as practice. You'll have to do lots of this sort of thing when you're head of the Zaibatsu."

 

Kazuya nodded mutely and put on the suit. He admired it in mirror, tugging the cravat straight. He ran his tongue over his lip to try and wipe off a crack of dried blood. He gave up when he realised it was really very insignificant compared to the old scar running across his face his father had given him when he was a child.

 

"Don't be too long." Kazuya took his sheet of notes and stalked out of the hotel room. He read over it all the way down in the elevator, then folded it and placed it inside his jacket. When he stepped out of the sliding doors, his head was held high and his expression was aloof. His shoulders had the hunch of a fighter to them, but the overall impression was enough to make people scatter from his path, he was pleased to see.

 

Bruce Irvin was standing awkwardly in the hotel lobby in slacks, a pale shirt, and a fine high-end lilac silk tie. Kazuya looked at it. Bruce shifted slightly, embarrassed at the inspection.

 

"Lilac suits you," Kazuya said mercilessly, enjoying the further awkwardness in Bruce's posture. "Walk with me, I'll show you the Zaibatsu stall."

 

The stall was flanked by men and women in suits emblazoned with the Zaibatsu emblem. Black banners with the silver logo stood behind them, with the large poster of Heihachi between. The tables had been changed to display a new range of prototype weapons.

 

"You seem like you got a lotta manpower here already. Sure you need me?"

 

"They did jackshit when the media were crawling all over my brother on Monday. Stand there and make sure there are no unauthorised photographs. Everything going to the press needs strict regulating. If it doesn't have me smiling and shaking someone's hand, it's not happening."

 

"Not happening then, is my guess," Bruce muttered beneath his breath.

 

Kazuya pretended he didn't hear that.

 

"In a few hours I have to give a presentation. I want you standing nearby whilst I deliver it. It's the most high profile appearance I've made alone, and I want my own bodyguard nearby, not those who work for my father." He glanced distastefully at the suits standing still and to attention.

 

Bruce nodded. He was beginning to feel sorely underdressed for this role. Everyone that swept passed him had carnations pinned to their chests and pocket squares in their blazers, and drank coffee from tiny china espresso cups whilst laughing emptily with their colleagues.

 

"If anyone asks for me, tell them Chaolan will be here shortly."

 

"Wait," Bruce called after him, "where are you going?!"

 

Kazuya was already turning to leave. He gave Bruce a dismissive look and pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket, bending his attention to it as he left. Bruce was suddenly alone at the stall with the silent Zaibatsu members. He tried to flatten a crease on his shirt.

 

"Hey," he nudged a woman in a Zaibatsu suit with black glasses, "got any more of those jackets? I work for Kazuya."

 

"Then let Kazuya-sama provide you with one," came the terse reply.

 

Bruce scowled. He felt like he was beginning to understand why Kazuya might want someone loyal to him nearby, if this is what the rest of his staff were like.

 

Chaolan took an agonisingly long time to arrive. Bruce kept ducking eye contact from potential clients, and noticeable relief showed on his face with Chaolan sauntered over to the stall.

 

"Hey Brucey, you're looking gorgeous in that tie." Bruce's relief vanished into hatred. _If this man had been anyone other than Kazuya's brother…_ Chaolan's expression mutated subtly into a sly smile, clearly enjoying his position of privilege. "Kaz just run off and leave you here to fend for yourself?"

 

Bruce nodded stiffly, still irked by Chaolan's flirtatious tone.

 

"He said he wanted me with him whilst he gave some presentation."

 

"Oh, well let's have you looking the part then." Chaolan sized up one of the larger men standing silent at the Zaibatsu stall. "You look about his size. Jacket off, Mr Irvin will be wearing that for now."

 

Bruce gingerly took the blazer, trying to ignore the cold look in the eye of the man who reluctantly ceded it. The fit was still a little tight, but he felt less out of place now that the Zaibatsu logo was on his chest. Chaolan was annoying and condescending, but he was definitely better at identifying and resolving problems than Kazuya, who had left Bruce feeling somewhat idiotic in the middle of all this pomp.

 

His suspicions on this matter were further confirmed as he watched Chaolan deal with potential clients all morning, deftly turning their attention to where it would be most lucrative for the Zaibatsu, egging them into deeper commitments, setting them at ease by laughing at their jokes that weren't funny at all. People walked away with the impression that they were entertaining, in a position of power, and feeling good about themselves, whilst the stacks of potential income promised on the papers in Chaolan's hands kept growing. He had a grudging new respect for this strange man, and was finally beginning to see the Mishima edge behind that front of simpering nicety. This was a ruthless businessman taking down his opposition and firmly tying his clients into one-sided binding contracts. He might not look like Kazuya or Heihachi, but he still gave off that familiar aura of cold, cunning ambition that was ready to trample over anyone foolish enough to get in the way.

 

Bruce was first alerted to trouble more by instinct than anything else. There was a movement in the flow of people that stuck out compared to the smooth easy slide of wealth and self-congratulatory composure. Something frantic. A fraction later there was a dishevelled red-haired young man pushing towards the stall. He had a harrowed look and bent press card about his neck and was making a beeline for Chaolan. Bruce stepped up into his way, his massive bulk stopping the journalist short.

 

"You bastard!" the young man shrieked, immediately ensnaring the attention of tens of beady, greedy eyes about them. "I know you're behind this! You and your brother!"

 

Bruce placed a calm hand on the man's shoulder,

 

"You're going to have to leave," he said with tested patience.

 

The journalist tried to wriggle out from the grip to no avail.

 

"Let go of me! You bastards!" He tried to push around Bruce to get at Chaolan, "this morning I- _let go of me!_ \- this morning I got a call that the interest on my loan had ch-changed! I know you're fucking behind this!" Bruce deftly turned the man into an arm lock and none too gently twisted it behind his back, taking his shoulder in the other hand so that he could control his movements. "D-do you know how many years it's going to take me to pay this off!? Do you know how many people you're screwing over just because a dumb photograph?!"

 

Bruce frowned at the man's wild accusations. He glanced back once at Chaolan to ensure this was the way he wanted the situation dealt with. Chaolan had a calm, cruel smile on his face,

 

"Escort this young man outside and tell the Expo security if he tries to re-enter the building they should call the police. He's clearly been drinking too early in the day." Chaolan then returned to his business, looking over the contracts he'd signed so far.

 

"I have _not_ been drinking!" the journalist shouted, but Bruce was already frog-marching him out of the Expo and down to the hotel lobby. "I haven't," the man said in a more tired voice, fragments away from a sob. "Please," he said to Bruce now, since there was no one else left in earshot, "I have to pay for my rent, a-and my mother's health bills. Please, don't let them do this to me." Bruce didn't let go of the man until they were in front of the hotel glass doors, with the blare of city traffic and tires on wet tarmac in their ears.

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce told him, "but stay away, or you better hope the police get here before I put you in your place."

 

The man was crying more freely now, and scuffling tears away unsuccessfully with the back of his hand.

 

"P-please, i-it's int-timidation and scare tactics just to-"

 

"Take it up with a lawyer if you have a problem."

 

"I-it's all legal! Th-they've-"

 

"Then you crossed the wrong people, pal."

 

"I-it's not right! P-please will you talk to Mr Lee about it for me? I can't live like this! I'll make an apology, i-if that's what he wants, but this is i-insane! O-on my current wage I couldn't pay this back if I worked e-every day for eighty _years_."

 

"Good day." Bruce left the young man in the street with his despair. On the way back in he informed security of Chaolan's request, before heading back to the stall.

 

The weight of the journalist's words clung to him uncomfortably as he settled back into his sentinel post. He chewed over the pleas in his thoughts until he saw Chaolan had a spare moment. He had seemed so playful before, but now Bruce felt a fraction of anxiety in approaching him.

 

"That… journalist back there," he said quietly, so that they might not be overheard.

 

"Nothing to worry about," Chaolan's voice was light.

 

"He said something about loans he couldn't pay back and his mother's health. Asked me to talk to you for him."

 

"Well, now you've done so. Consider your conscience clear, Mr Irvin."

 

"Did you?" Chaolan turned slowly to Bruce at the question, eyebrows raising. "Did you raise his loan interest, or whatever?" Bruce clarified, but was beginning to wish he hadn't. There was something scathing and incisive in Chaolan's gaze.

 

"Did Kazuya never tell you not to ask questions about Zaibatsu business?"

 

Bruce hesitated. He'd never had cause to ask before. That cold, piercing look in Chaolan's eyes was growing. Eventually Bruce had to look away.

 

"I'll let you get on with your work," Bruce said, and stepped back, taking up his place again to stand to attention next to the stall.

 

Chaolan gave him a smile in response, all sweet and charming again, but his eyes still had that hard edge to them.

 

Chaolan was in a good mood for the rest of the morning. At one point he gave Bruce half an hour off to fetch himself a coffee and make use of the free brunch buffet. Bruce found himself milling around with company that didn't suit him at all, piling a glass plate high with an assortment of things he didn't know the name of. He took his coffee strong and black and declined the various offers of alcohol. He didn't want his senses dull for a second around these Mishimas and the many people they'd pissed off.

 

The corporate presentations were in a conference room off the main Expo hall. Lines of chairs faced a wide stage dominated by a lectern with a microphone curling on its pine polished wood. For one reason or another, every seat in the room was full for Kazuya. Some people might have been there out of genuine interest, others likely because they thought they ought to put in an appearance rather than risk looking like they were spurning the massive Mishima conglomerate, others were almost certainly there because all the drama this week seemed to swirl around the Mishima brothers.

 

Chaolan beckoned for Bruce to follow him and they both made their way up to where Kazuya was standing just to one side of the stage, scouring his notes. The brutal edges of Chaolan softened in his brother's presence. He was gentle and reassuring around him, moving easily about the angles in Kazuya's obvious agitation.

 

"I'll put Bruce here just off the stage on the floor, where he can still be seen, but won't draw too much attention," Chaolan was saying. Kazuya nodded wordlessly. "Do you want me in the front row, or at the back?"

 

Kazuya pinched the bridge of his nose,

 

"I don't know. The back. No, the front. There might be a fucking q and a. If there is you better come up for that."

 

"Hey," Chaolan tilted his head until he looked up into Kazuya's eyes, "you got this. Yesterday you fought in front of a crowd nearly double this size."

 

"Fighting's different."

 

"Telling me," Bruce muttered under his breath, even though he knew he wasn't meant to be in this conversation. Kazuya glanced up, as if noticing him for the first time. "I mean, good luck and all, but rather you than me."

 

Chaolan gave him a glare, but Kazuya seemed to relax a little into a smile, as though having Bruce nearby reminded him of what being around real people was like.

 

Kazuya stepped up onto the stage. With each footstep he took towards the lectern the room grew quieter until there was absolute silence when he stopped before it. He tried not to look at the crowd itself, fixing his eyes on a point at the back of the room, like he did when he was psyching himself up for a big fight.

 

"Thank-you for inviting me to speak," he began, fearsome expression fixed on his serious face. "I am Mishima Kazuya of the Mishima Zaibatsu, and I've been asked to say a few words about my corporation and my plans for its future. I'm sure the Mishima Zaibatsu needs no introduction in this place. Over the last few decades, the Zaibatsu has grown to dominate the arms market across the globe. There are some here today who might regret the apparent monopoly we have, but those are people who simply haven't made the right deals with us yet. There's plenty of profit to go around if you let the Mishima Zaibatsu into your hearts." That got a rumble of a laugh from about the room. It was one of Chaolan's lines of course, Kazuya would have been much less tongue in cheek about it. Kazuya felt himself relax slightly now that the initial tension had been broken. He gave a fractional smirk, then looked back at his notes. He froze. His eyes had skated over the crowd, and a familiar image had burned itself onto his retinas as he'd done so. He slowly lifted his gaze back to the crowd.

 

Chaolan shifted in his seat. Something was wrong. Kazuya had gone pale. He had a look on his face like he'd just taken a full kick to his stomach and might be about to vomit. Chaolan straightened, immediately on edge. No one seemed to have realised yet that the pause was anything other than dramatic. Chaolan craned his head to see what Kazuya saw. Then it was his turn to go white.

 

About four rows back was the unmistakeable eccentric eyebrows and swept back hair of Mishima Heihachi. He was sitting calmly, perfectly sedate and attentive, as if he did not know what effect his presence here would have on his sons.

 

 _Shit,_ Chaolan thought.

 

Bruce had caught on to their distress by this point and was frowning at Chaolan, trying to work out if there was someone he needed to remove from the crowd. Chaolan shook his head emphatically at him, motioning him to stay put.

 

Chaolan made a small movement, trying to catch Kazuya's eye. When he succeeded, Kazuya gave him a full face of the dread they both felt churning their insides. Chaolan gave him his best brave encouraging smile, motioning with his hand that Kazuya should continue. Kazuya looked at him dumbly, and for a moment Chaolan thought he might just walk out. But then he was shuffling his papers and frowning down at them. He looked back up, abandoning his notes. His hands gripped the lectern in a manner that would look authoritative to all but those that knew him. Chaolan could see the white of his knuckles.

 

"I am here of course, just as a representative of the head of Mishima Zaibatsu, my father, Mishima Heihachi." There was another pause, where Chaolan could see Kazuya trying to work out if he was expected to give up the stage to their father or continue with the talk. After another strung out silence, Kazuya continued. "It has been a privilege to talk to so many of you this week and to represent his interests. We have made many new allies here in Berlin, not the least of which has been the start of a new friendship with Mr Marcel De Rochefort". He gestured to Rochefort in the crowd, who squirmed under the attention as heads turned to face him. There was a stirring elsewhere in the room. Kazuya was aware of someone in a kharki uniform getting up from the back and leaving. Rochefort gave a small, apprehensive wave to those around him, then settled back into his seat. Kazuya drank in the man's discomfort, trying to centre himself by grasping what power he could from his predicament.

 

Kazuya spoke for another twenty minutes. He was commanding but aristocratically charming with his words – everything Chaolan could have hoped for, had there not been that ghost lingering behind every inch of his brother's face. It pained Chaolan even to look at him, struggling on like he was drowning at sea. At the end of the presentation there was applause, some people even stood, and quickly those who hadn't followed suit, not wishing to get on the wrong side of the Zaibatsu. Chaolan had been just about to get up and steer Kazuya out of the room, when he saw a figure crossing the room, parting the crowd with his strides. Chaolan stayed rooted. So did Kazuya. There was a kind of doom written on Kazuya's features. He seemed to get smaller with every step that his father took closer.

 

Eventually Heihachi made it to the stage and stepped up on it. There were murmurs of surprise and recognition from the audience, most of whom started to seat themselves again.

 

Heihachi put an arm around Kazuya's shoulders. Chaolan could see his brother trying not to flinch.

 

"I'm so glad you've all had that chance to meet my talented son, the shining star of the Mishima family. I can think of no safer hands in which to one day leave my legacy. Kazuya has a gentle filial obedience to him, but today he has stepped up and shown that he also has potential leadership material."

 

 _Fuck,_ Chaolan thought. Because people had described Kazuya as many things, but never as gentle, or filial, or obedient. Those words were there to counter the tabloid article that Heihachi had definitely read and flown halfway around the world at short notice to diffuse. Chaolan could feel his chest constricting and the air felt hard to breathe. Kazuya looked somewhere between furious and miserable on stage, with his eyes dutifully lowered but burning holes into the floor.

 

"Of course, this old man has a life left in him yet, and it'll be many more years until I pass over that mantle!" His arm tightened around Kazuya, somewhere between affection and threat. "Plenty more time for him to learn his father's tricks of the trade. I will be here for the remainder of the week, so please address any future concerns about the Zaibatsu to myself. My son has done an excellent job, but I think we can give him a well-deserved break now!"

 

There was good-natured laughter at Kazuya's expense, and another round of applause. People got up as Heihachi signalled that he was finished. Chaolan stood and made his way to Bruce.

 

"Get out of here," Chaolan said out the side of his mouth to him. Bruce frowned, indignant. Chaolan cut him off before he could speak, "Kazuya won't want Father knowing the ins and outs of your position here. Go. And don't set foot back in this hotel unless you have an explicit message from Kazuya to do so. Hand that jacket back as you go."

 

Bruce was about to give Chaolan a piece of his mind when he caught sight of Kazuya's face, a swirl of bitter hatred and despair next to his energetic, larger-than-life father. Bruce gave one nod at Chaolan who's attention had already returned to the stage with a thin veneer of pleasantness painted over something that looked to Bruce a lot like fear. He decided to cut his losses and leave, ducking out into the crowd at the first opportunity he got.

 

Chaolan's fake smile got smaller and smaller as his brother and father walked over to him. By the time they were at his side, his eyes had dropped deferentially and all trace of a facade had gone from him.

 

"Walk with me," Heihachi said. His sons fell in step behind him and remained silent as he shared amicable greetings with old business friends on his way out the room. Chaolan didn't dare look at Kazuya, or at anyone else. He pushed his sunglasses further up onto his nose self consciously.

 

They were led into the brunch room – now almost empty save for a few hotel staff clearing away the buffet.

 

"Give us a moment," Heihachi said pleasantly to them, and they departed quickly, leaving Kazuya and Chaolan alone with their father. Heihachi moved about the scattered remains of the buffet, helping himself to a little fruit and a cup of tea. He turned back around and leaned his weight against the table, looking his sons over. "Take those things off your face," he said sharply.

 

Chaolan snapped his glasses off and stowed them in his pocket. He turned his face slightly so that his good side was more visible. There was no hiding the black eye though. Heihachi nodded, as if confirming something. He turned to Kazuya, biting into an apple as he did so,

 

"You do this?"

 

Kazuya nodded.

 

"It was my fault though, Father," Chaolan interjected.

 

"Was I speaking to you?"

 

Chaolan shrunk and immediately felt like a child again. He interlaced his fingers behind his back and twitched them anxiously.

 

Heihachi produced the newspaper in question from the inside of his heavy, ornamented kimono. He threw it so that it landed on an uncleared breakfast table between Kazuya and Chaolan. A half finished coffee cup clinked against its saucer, and a small paper packet of sugar overbalanced and spilled its crystals onto a lace tablecloth. They both looked down at the black and white photographs of themselves.

 

"Do you know how much our shares have dropped by in the last twenty-four hours?"

 

Silence.

 

It was one of those questions that you got in trouble for answering or for not answering.

 

"Any guesses?" Heihachi's voice was raising.

 

Chaolan could feel old childhood instincts to run going off inside him like an alarm. He swallowed and kept his head lowered.

 

"We were dealing with this problem as best we could," Kazuya said.

 

Heihachi walked over and stood before him. He stared down Kazuya, who met his eyes defiantly.

 

"Oh, you were _dealing_ with it? A better way to _deal_ with it, Kazuya, is not to _cause_ the problem in the first place." Heihachi picked up the newspaper and held it a millimetre from Kazuya's face. "It says in here you assaulted a journalist to stop the photograph from printing, but it seems you couldn't even get that right."

 

Kazuya and Heihachi were nose to nose now, black eyes igniting as they glared at each other. Chaolan felt the air around him become electric. He tried to move a fraction away from the confrontation.

 

"Stay where you are," Heihachi barked, though his eyes never left Kazuya.

 

Chaolan hid under the silvery fall of his hair but obediently stayed still.

 

"I'm disappointed," Heihachi said softly, "in both of you." He drew back the newspaper and Kazuya flinched. A small, unpleasant smile crossed Heihachi's face as he replaced the newspaper in his kimono. Kazuya set his teeth together, furious at having shown that fraction of fear. "I'm taking over here and you will continue your duties under my close supervision." Heihachi took a few paces back and rested against the buffet table again. "You say you've secured a deal with Rochefort?"

 

Silence again. Chaolan glanced over at his brother. He was too consumed trying to control his hate to answer. Chaolan looked up timidly.

 

"I can fetch the paperwork for you to look over," his voice was small.

 

"Bring it to dinner this evening. I will look over it there. What else?"

 

Chaolan brought out the sheaves of paper from the contracts he'd secured that morning.

 

"There's more," he said quietly as he handed them to his father, "this is just from this morning."

 

Heihachi nodded, rifling through the pages.

 

"These all have Chaolan's signature on."

 

"Kazuya was preparing for the presentation, so I was at the Zaibatsu stall this morning."

 

Heihachi looked over at Kazuya sharply,

 

"You spent all morning preparing that twenty minute talk?"

 

Kazuya said nothing, instead smouldering in silent anger. Heihachi beckoned Chaolan back over. Chaolan approached him warily. Heihachi grabbed his tie and pulled him sharply the remainder of the distance. A cry escaped Chaolan at the sudden force tugging on his neck. And suddenly Heihachi's face was up in his, looking hard at the blue-purple bruise that had caused so much trouble for them these last two days. He quailed under Heihachi's inspection.

 

"How did your brother even manage to land a hit on you like this?"

 

"S… sparring," Chaolan leaned his face as far away from his father as he could with the tie still taut and dragging at the base of his skull.

 

"And you failed to block it."

 

 _Clearly_ , Chaolan thought with irritation, but didn't dare to say so. The hand pulling his tie released him, but then snapped closed about his neck. Chaolan's eyes shot open with naked fear, and he heard Kazuya shift, disturbed, behind him.

 

"I see insolence in your eyes, Chaolan."

 

Chaolan opened his mouth to speak, but the hand tightened about his throat. He shook his head vigorously. He could feel pressure choking off his windpipe, and startled pricks of tears tried to grow in his eyes. He blinked them back furiously.

 

"You think this is a joke? Your incompetence has cost this company millions of yen, and Kazuya his reputation."

 

Chaolan's tears really did fall then, and genuine distress swept over his face. He tried to choke out an apology, but couldn't get a noise out around the vice grip on his throat. He felt his face going hot with the struggling effort to breathe. A part of him was begging for Kazuya to intervene, but a rational part of him was aware that it wouldn't go well for either of them if he did.

 

Heihachi released him and Chaolan dropped to the floor, massaging his throat and gasping in gulps of air to his burning lungs. He quickly struggled to his feet and retreated back to Kazuya's side, keeping his eyes firmly averted.

 

"This isn't the end of this conversation," Heihachi fixed Kazuya with a deliberate look, "but for the remainder of this conference you are going to behave in a model fashion, and assuage any doubt that the Zaibatsu is in anything but stable hands, now and in the future, understood?" They both nodded. "I said is that understood!?"

 

"Yes, Father," they said in unison.

 

"Good. I have a reservation at a restaurant this evening. Be ready in the hotel lobby at six-thirty this evening. You're relieved of your duties for the rest of the afternoon until then."

 

Chaolan swept out of the room as soon as they were dismissed, not looking at Kazuya as he left. He snapped his sunglasses on and took the stairs up to his room to avoid meeting anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case we didn't have enough anxiety and pent up aggression in this story, here's Heihachi to add to the mix, master of terrifying children since 1969. Thanks for reading and thanks especially for the beautiful comments: they've been amazing to read and really brightened up my week! I'm also on [tumblr](https://erenaeoth.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/erenaeoth) so please feel free to add me there if you wish :)


	7. Eternal War

He knocked on the door.

 

"Who's there?"

 

"Kazuya."

 

He heard reluctant footsteps, then the lock clicking open. The room was a thick haze of curling cigarette smoke. Chaolan was in a crop top and shorts with his hair unkempt. As soon as he'd opened the door he return to his bed and flopped on it, limbs all languid and careless.

 

A noise somewhere between a sigh and growl came from Kazuya and he crossed the room and opened all the windows wide, making the air a little more breathable.

 

"I came to see if you were alright."

 

"Why do you care?" Chaolan was in of those moods. Kazuya ground his teeth.

 

"Maybe I don't," he turned to leave.

 

"Don't go."

 

Chaolan sat up and collected his legs to his chest. He looked small again. Vulnerable. Like he wasn't one of the best fighters Kazuya knew, with one of the most cunning minds. Heihachi always managed to do that do him. Kazuya added it to the mile long list of reasons he hated the man.

 

There were red marks around Chaolan's neck and the ever present cigarette was shaking slightly in his fingers. Kazuya turned back around and folded him arms. The room fell silent. The street was loud through the open window – distant traffic, the muted murmur of voices, an ambulance siren changing pitch as it got further away. There wasn't anything to be said that hadn't been said before, but just standing in the same room without their father made things a little better. It was easier to gather strength, easier to pull their shields and masks back together.

 

"Make sure to bring the rest of the contracts tonight, along with the Rochefort one."

 

"I will."

 

"Is there someone else we can get to be invited to dinner with us?" It always took the pressure off them if Heihachi had to be pleasant to a guest. He would be patronising all meal and unforgiving if they slipped up, but it was preferable to the full unmediated force of his attention.

 

"I'll look through our contacts – try and find someone appropriate. Can you deal with making it happen?"

 

Kazuya nodded in response. There was a way things had to be framed around Heihachi. The best way to get a proposal accepted was to make the idea come from him. It never did well to simply ask for something, that was a sure way to arouse his suspicion and get a resoundingly negative answer.

 

Working together to circumnavigate their father was the game Kazuya and Chaolan were best at. On any other topic there was a strong likelihood they'd fight each other tooth and claw over the matter. When it came to Heihachi, they were a well-oiled machine, playing off each others strengths to keep him placated and firmly misdirected from any potential cause for anger.

 

Kazuya's eyes lingered on the way Chaolan's fingers still shook and the hunch of his shoulders. Ordinarily, he'd propose they spar. It was a good way to take out their anger and frustration and force their mind to focus on something more primal. Under the circumstances though, that seemed inadvisable. He pocketed Chaolan's cigarette box from where it sat on the bedside table.

 

"You've had enough of these. Get me the name of whoever you want at dinner. Take a walk. Take a shower. Pull yourself together."

 

"Anything else?" Chaolan said sourly.

 

"Yes, what did you do with Bruce?"

 

"Sent him away. Told him you'd call him if you needed him. Didn't think you'd want Father knowing too much about your pet projects."

 

Kazuya nodded. It indeed would have been awkward if Bruce let anything slip about the militia he was a part of. Not to mention how Kazuya had come by his acquaintance. Or the exact nature of Bruce's work. Chaolan didn't know about that either, but was savvy enough to know it wouldn't be anything Heihachi would approve of.

 

"Good." Kazuya became wrapped up in thought, imagining all the more terrible ways today could already have gone.

 

"I like him," Chaolan broke into his thought. He'd stopped hugging his legs and was finally looking more relaxed and like himself again.

 

"Bruce? I thought you hated him."

 

"I hated him when you sprung him on me and gave all this trust to a total stranger. But I like him now. Took care of that journalist for me who came back for blood."

 

"The journalist came back?"

 

"Nothing I couldn't have handled, but it always looks better when someone else is doing your dirty work for you. You need to speak with him though. Bruce that is. He was asking questions."

 

Kazuya shrugged,

 

"I usually answer his questions. He's good to talk to. Perceptive. Got the same attention to detail I have."

 

"You mean the same violent solutions in mind to any problem."

 

Kazuya gave a small smirk,

 

"Maybe."

 

"Well, there are some things he doesn't need to know. He needs to learn when to shut up and do as he's told."

 

"Careful, Chaolan. Maybe I'll make _him_ my second-in-command."

 

"That's cool, Kaz, you can have whoever you want as your second-in-command when your running head of security for me at the Zaibatsu."

 

Kazuyas eyes flashed, and they were back to this argument – always playful, always deadly serious.

 

"You'll be sharpening pencils in my PR department."

 

"I'd be fucking amazing at PR. I'd make you a bouncer at my nightclubs, only thing you're good for is starting fights with people half your bodyweight."

 

"Prick."

 

"Asshole."

 

And like that the room was lighter, and Chaolan's fingers were steady, and his shoulders proud. Kazuya's work here was done.

 

"See you at dinner, moron."

 

"See you, bastard."

 

***

 

Kazuya had chosen more sedate attire for the evening's revelries. His plan was to look as invisible as possible – draw as little attention as he could and minimise the amount of confrontation that would inevitably occur. Whatever was said, he knew he shouldn't rise to it. Somehow it never worked out that way though.

 

When he got to the lobby his father was drinking sake with an old family friend, Wang Jinrei. Jinrei lived in a small house somewhere in the extensive Mishima gardens back home. He was rarely seen away from his retreat, let alone caught up in the family's business. He stuck out in his traditional silken Chinese suit, bright with embroidered gold. He lifted his small glass away from his long white beard and smiled at Kazuya as he approached. There had been moments in Kazuya's childhood where this man had briefly seemed approachable and kind next to Heihachi's temper. As Kazuya grew, he had long come to realise that all Jinrei really was was cowardly when it came to confrontation. Whatever opposition he'd once had to Heihachi's methods had long turned to appeasement, and now the two could share a drink and one would be none the wiser that there had ever been any bad blood between them. Kazuya despised him. He'd lived his every breath fighting his father since the age of five – this old man had had the power then that Kazuya didn't and chose to stand aside and let Heihachi walk all over him.

 

"Jinrei will be joining us for dinner this evening," Heihachi looked pointedly at him from under thick dark eyebrows, mirrors of Kazuya's own. His tone was sharp, as if daring Kazuya to challenge him. Kazuya ducked his head and sat himself heavily on the barstool next to Jinrei. He might hate the old man, but there were worse people to go to dinner with than Wang Jinrei – he at least knew most of the secrets the family had to hide. Besides, he got on well with Chaolan. Kazuya was feeling generous towards his brother after the fall he'd taken for them both this afternoon.

 

A bartender came over and asked Kazuya if he'd like a sake too. Kazuya waited until his father was watching before pointedly ordering a whisky instead. When it arrived he sipped it whilst staring defiantly at Heihachi. Wang Jinrei chatted obliviously between them, and only caught their attention when he shuffled off his barstool with a noise of delight and went to meet Chaolan who'd finally come downstairs.

 

Chaolan was radiant in a fine tailored suit of pastels and white. He wore a high cravat that covered the choke marks on his neck and had combed his hair so that it fell artfully over the side of his face Kazuya had punched.

 

Jinrei had started speaking rapid Mandarin to Chaolan, who replied in polite Japanese, keen not to irritate his father and brother early on in the evening.

 

Heihachi gave Kazuya one more look through narrowed eyes, then stood and set down his cup.

 

"Come, the car is waiting."

 

An awkward limousine ride later, still filled with Jinrei's amiable conversation, and they were standing out in the night air at a private entrance to an expensive restaurant. They were shown first to a lavish waiting area with low, dark, wood furniture and squeaking leather couches. Once the table was laden with drinks and canapés, Kazuya was irritated to find that Jinrei had found his manners and was asking after him.

 

"And what do you think of Germany, Kazuya? This is your first time, yes?"

 

Kazuya swilled the ice in another whisky he was drinking.

 

"I've been before once."

 

"Twice," Heihachi corrected.

 

Kazuya gave him a cold glance, then returned his attention to Jinrei,

 

"Once before that I remember," he amended, "a Brikhauser event in a manor in the Black Forest when I was sixteen."

 

"And a family vacation to the Bavarian Alps in '73," Heihachi put in.

 

Kazuya's knuckles went white around his glass. His face had gone rigid. 1973 was the year before everything changed. The year before Heihachi had killed Kazuya's mother then thrown Kazuya off a cliff for being too weak.

 

"You were such a nice boy then," Jinrei reminisced. "You didn't frown so much. Always interrupting some conversation your grandfather and I were having to ask about some technique. Always fighting. Fighting, fighting, fighting was this one," Jinrei informed Chaolan, nudging him as he did so. Chaolan had an empty, pained smile on his face, while his heartbeat picked up to racehorse pace.

 

"I can't think what came over me," Kazuya fixed Jinrei with a look that was all old, cold hatred, and dripping irony.

 

"Don't mind Jinrei, his memory has as many holes as Chaolan's guard." Heihachi sipped his drink mildly.

 

Chaolan's forced pleasantness faded and he visibly wilted next to Kazuya.

 

"Memory? My memory's fine!" Jinrei exclaimed, "hm. Well, I do get the years a little muddled sometimes. The nineteen-sixties blend in with the seventies. But I remember when everyone got on so much better. Poor Chaolan, you never really got to see it. Kazuya's grandfather was such a gentle soul, and dear Kazumi of course, the house was filled with so much laughter then."

 

Chaolan glanced between Kazuya and Heihachi. They both had the exact same all-consuming fury on their faces, and looked like they were trying to take out their pent up anger on their respective drinks. Chaolan placed a hand on Jinrei's,

 

"Mr Wang, I didn't ask about your flight over! It's such a long way to come, did you manage alright?"

 

The old man meandered into this safer line of conversation, leaving Heihachi and Kazuya to both recover from whatever private hells they'd mentally descended into.

 

Shortly, they were shown to a table. It was set back from the rest of the restaurant on a raised podium, with a screen of greenery for privacy. Chaolan wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead as he navigated himself to the table first, then drew out a chair for Jinrei. He placed the old man opposite Heihachi, and himself next to his father. He'd really hoped he might avoid sitting next to Heihachi, but it was him or Kazuya, and he didn't want to know how that would end. Jinrei at least occupied most of Heihachi's sight and attention.

 

Heihachi was unusually quiet and subdued as they perused the menus. It was making Chaolan agitated. If he couldn't guess Heihachi's mind, then he couldn't anticipate how he could be placated.

 

"Stop fidgeting!" Heihachi barked at him. Chaolan shrunk in his chair and stammered an apology.

 

"I can't read this German," Jinrei put down his menu.

 

"It's French, old man. And there's fucki-… there's English descriptions underneath."

 

Heihachi's eyes snapped up to Kazuya,

 

"Mind your manners," he growled.

 

"My manners fell off a cliff," Kazuya hissed under his breath. Chaolan kicked him under the table.

 

"Can I get a Chinese menu?" Jinrei waved his menu in the air.

 

"I'll help you," Chaolan smiled. He got up and came round beside Jinrei, "what do you want to know?" Chaolan spoke softly with Jinrei, translating every random word that the old man pointed at. This was clearly wearing at Heihachi, who had to send away the waiter twice.

 

"Just pick something for him," Heihachi snapped.

 

Chaolan gave a nervous smile, trying to balance all the different demands on him.

 

"I want to try something German, we're in Germany!" Jinrei said.

 

"But it's a French restaurant, Mr Wang," Chaolan explained for the fourth time, "there aren't any German dishes here. Why don't you try _coq au vin_ , you like chicken don't you?"

 

"No, it's a celebration day today, I won't eat meat today."

 

Chaolan took a deep breath,

 

"I think all the dishes here are served with meat, Mr Wang."

 

"What, even on Uposatha? Ask them for me, Chaolan, you're so clever with all these languages you know."

 

Chaolan looked up. His father and brother were radiating impatience.

 

"One moment, I'll see what I can do."

 

Chaolan rolled his eyes heavenward and took in a deep breath as he found a waiter. There were no vegetarian dishes, but after much conversing in neither of their first languages, there was a sullen agreement to make a dish for Jinrei without meat. The chef that had been brought out to battle with Chaolan made some joke about _coq au vin_ without the _coq_ and why didn't they just give the old man a bottle of wine for his meal. Chaolan responded with some silky threats and intimidation tactics, liberally throwing around the Mishima name until he had everything he wanted.

 

He rejoined the table, only to find the tension palpable and so thick it cloyed the air. Orders were taken. Wine was poured and Chaolan could barely believe they hadn't even got through starters yet. He was already so tired and emotionally drained he wasn't sure how he'd make it through the remainder of the evening. He took a large gulp of red wine and tried to relax into the rich texture and the warmth it poured into his chest. It took him a moment to realise Kazuya was looking at him. It was an expectant look, like Chaolan had missed something. Chaolan hesitantly turned to his left and saw his father also looking at him.

 

"S-sorry, w-"

 

"The Rochefort contract and the others," Kazuya filled in.

 

"Yes! Of course, I apologise," Chaolan brought the papers in question out, passing them over to their father.

 

Heihachi read in silence as aperitifs arrived, and picked idly whilst his concentration remained on the papers. Chaolan and Kazuya had a few merciful minutes to enjoy their food without his scrutiny.

 

Chaolan chased a cherry tomato around his plate and speared it along with avocado, fresh lettuce and a twist of lemon. He let the fresh riot of flavour fill his mouth and try to quell the anxiety doing strange twists in his insides.

 

Heihachi didn't speak again until their plates had been cleared away and a second bottle of wine had been brought for him to try. He nodded at the sample he swilled and tested, then spread the Rochefort deal out on the table.

 

"This is a permanent agreement," his quick eyes moved between his sons, "does Rochefort know this agreement signs all his outgoing contracts to the Zaibatsu permanently?"

 

"Yup," Kazuya toyed with the stem of his wine glass, watching the liquid whirlpool about.

 

"And he still signed it?"

 

"'Course."

 

Heihachi frowned.

 

"Kazuya was very persuasive," Chaolan put in.

 

"You threatened him?" Heihachi's eyes were sharp.

 

"No," Kazuya said carelessly, "just put his position into perspective. Go ask him if he regrets the deal if you don't believe me."

 

Heihachi frowned again, then collected the deal back into a pile. Chaolan's heart gave a small leap. Heihachi was pleased. It was such a rare sight to see that Chaolan had almost missed the giveaway signs: a slight softening of his brow – a little like Kazuya's did when he was in a more merciful mood; the hesitance in his fingers; the way he was careful in his handling of the pages – like he thought there was something of value there; and the very tiny nod he gave. Chaolan's chest swelled with pride and relief and immediately the evening didn't seem so bad. A radiance lit his face and his smile became soft and genuine.

 

"Perhaps we can use this contract to set a precedence for others," he volunteered; "talk to our suppliers about the benefits of patronage and a closer working relationship. Since some companies have shown a reluctance to let us buy them outright, perhaps this could be a back door in to securing their profits."

 

"Hm," Heihachi made a noise of vague agreement, frowning but considering that. Chaolan gave him a shining smile even though he could see Kazuya's face grow more irritated out of the corner of his eye. "Unlikely that other CEOs would fall so easily into line."

 

"We thought the same of Rochefort," Chaolan said gently, "and yet he came around."

 

Heihachi sipped his wine. Chaolan followed his every movement with his eyes. He only drew his attention away when the waiter came with their main courses. Chaolan thanked them in French and German and dodged Kazuya's accusatory eyes. Kazuya never understood how Chaolan could change so quickly around Heihachi, moving almost instantaneously between fear and deferential courtesy. He'd never really understood why Chaolan chose those as his survival mechanisms rather than stubbornness. It was on the whole because it worked. Kazuya usually got at least double the beatings Chaolan did, and that was reason enough in Chaolan's mind.

 

"We've got all these agreements already in writing now." Heihachi thumbed through the papers.

 

"But the legal contract work, apart from the Rochefort case, is all to be sent out later. These are just informal agreements. If we came up with a name, something new and safe sounding, and offered it as an addendum to the these agreements – to become a lifelong contractor of the Mishima, with special benefits. We could make it sound attractive rather than threatening."

 

"And which of those things do you think I wish to present myself as, Chaolan?"

 

Chaolan's smile faded and he swallowed. He turned his attention to a cheese soufflé, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his fork as he pushed it through the light crust.

 

Heihachi cracked open a mussel and slurped out its insides. Chaolan couldn't help noticing there was a kind of violence even to the way he ate. Nor could he help noticing that Kazuya was smirking slightly at the way the conversation had turned, as if to say – _what did you expe_ _ct?_

 

Jinrei took over the conversation after that, peppering the table with light stories about how beautiful the gardens looks even during winter and the light sheen of ice that had covered the fountain just before he left.

 

"Why did you leave?" Kazuya asked. "You don't get involved in Zaibatsu business."

 

"For you, Kazuya, my boy!" Jinrei's eyes crinkled into a smile. Kazuya stared at him dully. "Your father told me you were going to give a talk! And that you hadn't given one before and that he would be judging your delivery. Hm, I fell asleep in my room though because the flight tired me out. I very much wanted to come and support you. I remember when Heihachi first spoke in public…" Jinrei continued on but Kazuya had stopped listening. He fixed Heihachi with a look.

 

"Judging my delivery?" he cut in over the top of Jinrei's monologue. Chaolan had an apprehensive look of warning on his face, but Kazuya ignored it. "And how am I judged?" Kazuya said coolly to his father.

 

"Wanting." Heihachi matched his son's challenging stare.

 

Chaolan pulled his plate closer to him and tried to become invisible. He spooned soft fluffy bites of soufflé into his mouth and chased it down with a gulp of German Reisling white wine.

 

"Perhaps if you hadn't sought to sabotage it, then it might have gone better." Kazuya was testy. Chaolan tried to find his leg under the table to nudge him again, but Kazuya had moved out of reach.

 

"A father coming to hear his son speak is sabotage now?"

 

"Flying half way around the fucking world to sit in the audience without telling me is!" Kazuya snapped, heated.

 

Heihachi's eyes narrowed to thin black lines. Chaolan curled his nails into his palm. He desperately didn't want to get involved with this. He kept his eyes on his food as he spoke.

 

"Having to deal with the unexpected is part of delivering a good presentation, Kazuya. I think it was a kind gesture for Father and Mr Wang to come all this way to hear you speak."

 

He could feel Kazuya's eyes turn livid to him, but all Chaolan could do was hope his brother could see past his own rage to the lifeline Chaolan was trying to offer him.

 

" _Jinrei_ came to hear you speak. _I_ came to clean up the mess you've made of my company." Heihachi sucked the butter orange of his mussel out of its iridescent black shell. The clack as he tossed the empty shell into a side plate was the only noise at the table. Chaolan's heart sunk. He wondered if he could vanish into the fine upholstery of his dining chair and reawaken in another world in another life at another time.

 

"Mess?" Kazuya's voice was soft, "is that what the Rochefort deal looked like to you?"

 

"It's what this newspaper fiasco looked like to me."

 

"One tabloid. That has since been taken care of."

 

"And how exactly has it been taken care of?"

 

Kazuya sat back in his chair. A half finished beef stew was in front of him. Chaolan watched a sinking sprig of thyme on its surface nose-dive to a watery demise. Kazuya gave an emphatic gesture at him to answer their father's question.

 

"Nothing conspicuous, Father," Chaolan said demurely, keeping his gaze firmly averted, "I had the Zaibatsu buy out some of the journalist's outstanding loans and raised the interest on them. The man's finances are ruined, we won't be hearing from him again." Chaolan returned to his food, praying that that was the end of his involvement. There was quiet again at the table. Chaolan's eyes flicked to Kazuya to gauge the situation. A shadow of agitation had passed over his brother's face.

 

 _Shit._ Chaolan set down his cutlery and turned to face his father. Heihachi's eyebrows were pulled into sharp angles and his nostrils were flaring.

 

"That tabloid printed unsubstantiated libel."

 

"Y… yes," Chaolan said carefully, unsure where this was going.

 

"It publicly sought to bring dishonour on the Mishima name. And you thought _inconspicuously_ dealing with _one_ journalist was an adequate response?"

 

Chaolan shrunk further into his chair. He sorely wished he was sitting where Kazuya was sitting. Heihachi was very close. The bruises on Chaolan's neck from earlier today felt hotter.

 

"I-I thought… it would send a message – m… make an example of the journalist in question."

 

"Journalists don't print stories, Chaolan. _Newspapers_ do. Newpapers _profit_ off them, newspapers make executive decisions about whether the monetary gain is worth the possible backlash. They have chosen wealth over the repercussions they fear from the Mishima Zaibatsu. And you _inconspicuously_ dealing with _one_ journalist sends a clear message alright. It sends a message that the Mishima are too weak to take down the newspaper itself."

 

Chaolan paled.

 

"I-I didn't realise…" he stammered, "I thought… I mean, I was trying…" Chaolan scrambled for his words. He desperately didn't want to apologise. Heihachi pounced on apologies as a way to tear you apart. "I will do better. I will learn from this."

 

Heihachi tossed another empty shell into the bowl. He picked up a yellow napkin and wiped his fingers on it. He opened his palm towards Chaolan. It was brown and lined and scarred.

 

"Give me your hand."

 

Chaolan's lower lip trembled and he looked up at Heihachi. Everything he saw there was hard and merciless. Chaolan's fingers curled and he instinctively drew his hand to his chest.

 

"Father, I'll do better, I promise."

 

Heihachi wrapped his knuckles on the table, making him jump. Chaolan reluctantly placed his hand in Heihachi's. Even after all these years, it still looked small and delicate next to his father's. Chaolan looked up again, unspoken pleas in his eyes.

 

When Heihachi's fingers first closed they were gentle, almost tender, and for a very brief moment, Chaolan dared to hope that was maybe all this was. Then the grip became vice like, crushing his index finger towards his little finger. Chaolan tried not to wince as pain shot through his hand.

 

"You've consistently disappointed me this week, Chaolan."

 

Chaolan's world narrowed down to just those cruel eyes. Nothing else mattered save trying to make the pain stop.

 

"It won't happened again," he managed to keep his voice even, but then the grip tightened further and a small noise close to a whimper escaped him. He could feel the bones in his hand protesting, as Heihachi's iron grip slowly crushed the softer parts of his palm in on itself. He continued to hold eye contact as best as he could, setting his teeth firmly together to try and stop himself from making any sound or scene.

 

"If you break his hand he's not even good for a sparring partner any more," Kazuya broke in. There was an idle languor to his voice that fooled neither Chaolan nor Heihachi as to its true purpose.

 

Heihachi fixed Kazuya with a deliberate look. He let go of Chaolan. Chaolan snapped his arm back and massaged his abused hand.

 

"Coming to his rescue, Kazuya? Perhaps more has changed in the few days you've been away than I first realised."

 

"Of course not," Kazuya snapped, "I hone my skills against Chaolan, though. How am I meant to do that if he's recovering for three months. He needs both hands against me, as that black eye is a testament to."

 

Heihachi nodded with a slow, knowing, deliberation.

 

"So there's no conspiracy here? No brothers finding their fraternal compassion to try and challenge their father?"

 

"Of course not," Kazuya spat. "As if I would ever have compassion for someone like him."

 

Heihachi gave a smile. It did nothing to reassure anyone at the table.

 

"Then prove it." There was silence. Kazuya looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Chaolan, give your brother your hand."

 

"This is stupid!" Kazuya's back arched like a wildcat. "We're in public! There's no need for your sadist games and-"

 

"Do as your told!"

 

Chaolan extended a shaking hand across the table. Kazuya's more calloused fingers enveloped it. For a moment he felt calmer, safer. The only contact Kazuya ever initiated was in the sparring ring, and Chaolan had been used to the weight of his fists for as long as he could remember. On very rare occasions though, when the world felt close to breaking them, Kazuya would reach out. Chaolan had come to associate that feather-light reassurance with a peace that nothing else in his life could come close to replicating.

 

"Break it," Heihachi said, without blinking.

 

Kazuya's eyes bore so much hatred Chaolan thought this might be it, the moment Kazuya finally snapped and took on their father. In the corner of his eye, he saw Wang Jinrei carefully attentive to his food, eyes firmly lowered, as they always had been when it came to Heihachi's cruelty.

 

Chaolan felt Kazuya's grip tighten. His eyes widened but Kazuya's stare was firmly fixed on their father. The two of them were warring in silence like this was some game of chicken. Kazuya's grip became painful.

 

"Kazuya, don't," Chaolan tried to reason with him. Heihachi and Kazuya continued glaring intently at one another. Chaolan hissed and nearly upset a wine glass as Kazuya's grip became as tight as Heihachi's had. Then it was worse. All the nerves in his hand felt like they were on fire and his knuckles ground against each other. "K-Kazuya, _please_." Kazuya still wasn't looking at him. Tears jumped into Chaolan's eyes, "K-Kaz…" He turned wildly to his father, "Father, make him stop, please. I-I'll destroy every newspaper from here to Paris for you. Please make him stop!"

 

Heihachi made a motion with his hand and Kazuya released Chaolan. They were still glaring at one another. Chaolan pushed his chair out and stood abruptly. He walked to the restrooms as fast as he could. Somehow beyond the screen of waxy leaved plants, there was a bright normal restaurant, with happily dining families. There was a low murmur of lazy jazz over the speakers, and the light from soft candles lit bright faces, showing intimacy, care, and small inconsequential joys that were taken for granted.

 

He pushed open the door to the restroom. It was plush and spacious and empty, like everything else in Chaolan's life. He held his shaking hand to his chest and leant over a marble sink. His tears splattered individually, almost invisible next to the drops from the tap. He looked into a polished oval mirror mounted before him. The face that looked back at him was frightened and tired and angry. He stayed there, looking at the haunted man in the mirror.

 

He wanted to massage his hand, but the idea of anything touching it sent the memory of shooting pains back through his veins and wrist. So he just stood there instead. Someone came in, gave him a strange look, used a urinal, washed their hands, gave him another strange look, then left. Chaolan had already decided he wasn't ever leaving this haven.

 

"They sent me to look for you." He didn't look at Kazuya when he entered or when he spoke, but he was an unmistakable darkness in the corner of Chaolan's vision. His indigo suit clashed with the maroon wallpaper. Kazuya let out a heavy sigh, "sorry about that. You know what it's like, I couldn't show any weakness." Chaolan ignored him and kept staring at the mirror. The mauve undertones of the bruise under his eye peeked through the silvery curtain of his carefully combed hair. "Chaolan, at least say something." Kazuya reached out a hand, tentatively touching his shoulder. Chaolan flinched away and shot Kazuya a look. It wasn't the usual kind when they argued – stubborn or sulking. It was full of fear, like a caged animal backed into a corner.

 

"You would have done it," Chaolan whispered, keeping distance between them. "You would have broken my fingers."

 

"Chaolan," Kazuya said again, with more irritation and heaviness.

 

"You're just like him!" Chaolan spat.

 

Anger flickered on Kazuya's face and he took a step forward. Chaolan took two back, immediately pulling his injured hand to him, and curling his shoulders to brace for impact. Kazuya stopped then and something close to hurt finally showed on his always-impassive, always-hard features.

 

"It's him doing this. Not me."

 

"It's both of you! Leave me alone! You always drag me into your fights. All I wanted was to eat my fucking cheese soufflé."

 

Kazuya gave a small, almost laugh. It was still too tired and bitter to be amusement.

 

"I wouldn't have broken your fingers," Kazuya assured him. Kazuya wasn't sure he believed that himself, but he said it because Chaolan needed to hear it. When it came to holding his ground against his father, everything else came second. He couldn't let a fraction of weakness through, couldn't let his father entertain the possibility that there was anything in his son but cold hard steel. Steel that would one day send him to his grave.

 

"Y-you would have…" But Chaolan sounded less certain now, and like he desperately wanted to believe otherwise.

 

"Come here."

 

Chaolan hesitated, betrayal and fear still in his eyes. Instinct warred with hope inside him. He inched closer to Kazuya, wary and unsure. Kazuya drew his arms around him. His embrace was warm and his arms were strong. Chaolan pushed his forehead into his brother's shoulder. Suddenly he was clinging to him, and letting silent shuddering tears wrack through his body. And Kazuya was gentle, and soothing, murmuring soft things, even carding fingers through his hair. In that moment, Chaolan knew that it could never be real. Not in the way he wanted it to be. He could never have a brother he could trust to truly look out for him, or comfort him, or really understand him. He recognised all his own tactics of manipulation in Kazuya's movements – waiting until someone was at their most vulnerable, giving them what they most craved when they had nothing. And for Chaolan that had always been contact, safety, sympathy, kindness. It was exactly the way he would have done it if he'd been trying to manipulate himself. Despite knowing this, Chaolan let himself be drugged by it. He let himself be lulled out of his despair, and his tears brushed away. He let himself lean a head against Kazuya's shoulder and imagined what it might be like to have a family that might have offered these small gestures of affection for nothing, and with sincerity.

 

"Better?" Kazuya said gently. Chaolan nodded. Kazuya drew him back to arm's distance. "Clean yourself up, we need to return to the dinner table, alright?" Chaolan nodded again. Kazuya brushed a rough thumb under his good eye, smudging away the last of Chaolan's tears. "There's crème brûlée coming for desert, I know you like that." Chaolan gave Kazuya a weak smile and nodded again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for this distressing chapter filled with sad things. I promise the story gets slightly less gloomy. I upset myself every time I proofread this chapter, but I needed to give a glimpse into Heihachi's manipulation and also into his relationship with Kazuya, who's hate for him is so strong he ends up becoming something of a mirror of his father. 
> 
> This chapter also made me realise there's a lot of bitter things in my own relationships with my extended family - nothing as bad as this, but let's just say lots of Chaolan and Kazuya in that restaurant scene feels very familiar!
> 
> Thanks so much for your continued comments, I adore reading all the analysis and feelings you're sharing with me. Sorry again for the heavy hitting emotions in this one, I promise it isn't without good reason!


	8. Ferocious Devotion

It was bad that night. Even if he lay facing the door and kept the light on, his heart wouldn't stop hammering. Every time he let his eyes flutter shut, he had to snap them open and check there was no one coming through the door. He'd gone over in his head a thousand times how unlikely that was. Each hotel door had a private key. His key was lying on the table next to him. He'd placed it in full view so he could keep checking it was there. But the hotel staff would have a key, and Heihachi was his father, and his company was paying for these rooms, and he was a man people didn't say no to. There wasn't a kind of privacy Chaolan could have that Heihachi couldn't impose upon just by merit of being who he was. The likelihood of Heihachi even wanting to set foot in here was so unlikely. Chaolan could count the times on his hand when Heichachi had done so at home – usually to rouse him for some new early training routine, once late at night to demand Chaolan to account for some action that had happened whilst Heihachi was out. It wasn't the frequency that bothered him though – it was just the threat. The knowledge that there was no safe place, and that if he wished it so, Heihachi could be here, right now, hurting him in some way, was enough. The thousands of miles between them had been enough to give Chaolan restful nights in the hotel so far, but now, knowing that Heihachi was somewhere in this building, was keeping him in fitful distress.

 

At home, this might have been one of the times where he'd slip into Kazuya's room and lie down on the futon next to him, or straight onto the tatami if Kazuya had spread-eagled himself over the bedding. Knowing he was there at least meant that if Chaolan lay facing one way, no one could sneak up behind him without going through Kazuya. He wondered if he should knock on Kazuya's hotel room now. His left hand throbbed in painful reminder. He drew it to his chest and took a shuddering breath. Kazuya hadn't been an ally today.

 

The room was too big. The bed was too soft. It wasn't often these days that the alienness of the life he'd been adopted into hit him, but when it did, it always hit hard and when he was feeling particularly low. There was a reason he had such a refined taste after all. Someone who knows what it is to have nothing, is someone who can truly appreciate fine workmanship and material pleasures. Just then it all felt too close though, and too like something that belonged more to the Mishimas than to small, wiry Lee Chaolan, with his fists raised and the clothes on his back and nothing else in all the world.

 

Chaolan slipped out of the soft sheets and stood silent in the centre of the room. The wooden parquet floor was cold beneath his bare feet. His eyes lingered on a walk-in wardrobe. He pulled open the doors. It was a little musty inside and filled with coat hangers, and a high shelf full of spare bedding and pillows. He ignored all this and stepped in. He pulled the door shut behind him. It was very dark now and the walls were much closer. He curled up on the panelled wood floor in the corner. Close, close walls, a hard floor, no blanket, a chill draft coming in through the gap under the wardrobe door. An old, old home. Solid walls and a hiding spot – things that hadn't failed him in his childhood. Things that stayed reliable and trustworthy and unchanging and that didn't need pleasing or second-guessing, or exercising every fraction of his quick intelligence just to stay beyond the reaches of its violence. Here he could be at peace. And sleep.

 

***

 

Kazuya's mind was elsewhere as he checked his reflection, flicked his key up from the chest of drawers, and stepped out into the hotel corridor. At almost exactly the same moment, Chaolan emerged from his own neighbouring room. Kazuya's heart fell. He'd been hoping his uncharacteristic show of affection would be enough to fast track Chaolan out of the discomfort of last night's dinner fiasco. Judging from the mess before him, he guessed not. There were dark circles under Chaolan's eyes, noticeable despite the only slightly fading black bruise Kazuya had given him. His shoulders were hunched and his movements were furtive.

 

Chaolan glanced at him, then quickly dodged his eyes and walked away down the hall.

 

"Chaolan!" Kazuya called, sharper than he meant to, because Chaolan flinched in response. "Wait," Kazuya said more levelly, catching up to where his brother had obediently stopped. "You can't go downstairs like that. Come with me."

 

"I can do what I like. Leave me alone."

 

"You haven't even done your shirt up right. The buttons are all wrong."

 

Chaolan looked down and saw that he'd skipped a hole and buttoned all the rest wonky. Instead of blushing with embarrassment like Kazuya had expected, he just looked sad and defeated.

 

"Come with me," Kazuya said again, in the least aggressive tone he could manage. Chaolan followed as Kazuya led him to his room. "Now, sort yourself out."

 

Chaolan turned to the replacement mirror in Kazuya's room and reached for the offending buttons. He wrangled at it with his right hand for some time, before bringing up his left and trying to brace his effort against his palm. He turned slightly away from Kazuya to shield his attempt at solving the problem without the use of the pained fingers on his left hand. Kazuya's sharp eyes tracked the movement.

 

"Shit. You idiot, let me help." Kazuya reached for him, Chaolan drew away. "Don't be stupid. You want to go out there not looking your best?" Looking glamorous was an armour for Chaolan, Kazuya knew. Chaolan turned reluctantly to him and let Kazuya sort out the buttons. A few moments later, his shirt was straight and his breathing was a little less irregular. "Now, sit down." Chaolan sat on the edge of the bed. Kazuya joined him. "Let me look at that." Kazuya gestured to the hand. Chaolan shook his head violently and pulled away again. "Let me look at it," Kazuya said more firmly this time.

 

Chaolan's hand was shaking as he placed it into Kazuya's. He watched with haunted eyes, as if expecting those fingers to snap shut on him the way they had yesterday. Kazuya made a special effort to be careful, but Chaolan could feel the hard callouses brushing over skin that felt so brittle and delicate in comparison. Kazuya pressed gently, testing the muted responses of pain he got from different pressures.

 

"A tendon's been damaged. We'll need to get it looked at when we're back home, but for now I have bandages in my sports bag."

 

Chaolan shook his head,

 

"No bandages."

 

"This needs bandaging. Trust me, I know about this shit."

 

Chaolan shook his head again,

 

"Bandages are visible. I don't want the attention. Not from paparazzi, certainly not from Father. No bandages."

 

"Don't be stupid, Chaolan. This is a matter of health, not some stupid aesthetic choice."

 

"This _is_ my health. Less attention means less mistakes. Means less pain. Less injuries. Let me be. I just want there to be less. I just want to avoid more hurt this week. I've been trying to keep my head down, trying to do things right. And I don't know how to do it better. But I don't want any more. I don't want him to hurt me and I can't think how to get it so that he doesn't, but at the very least I can do this. I can make it so that it's not visible, and it doesn't remind him."

 

Chaolan had got to his feet part way through this, and was turning in small circles, eyes disengaged and a little wild.

 

"Hey," Kazuya's brow furrowed and something like concern festered there. He stood and took Chaolan by the arm, "hey." Chaolan stopped and regarded him with anxious flicking eyes. "You're getting yourself worked up. This is old news. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just like home. Just like normal. You're fine. We're fine. Get it together."

 

Chaolan took a shuddering deep breath. He chewed his bottom lip and blinked quickly, then nodded. He spoke more quietly once he had his breathing under control.

 

"I don't want… Please can you… If possible, I-"

 

"I won't drag you into anything. And I won't let him play any more stupid games with us like yesterday."

 

Chaolan nodded vigorously,

 

"And if he…?"

 

"I'll intervene. You've taken your fair share this week."

 

Chaolan's face finally broke into something like relief.

 

"Thank you," he said earnestly, because that was no small thing Kazuya was offering.

 

"Now, go to the bathroom, sort out your appearance. Put on that charming smile people want to see."

 

"Ok," Chaolan's voice was still small and vulnerable, and he was still ten times more receptive to all of Kazuya's demands than normal. "Can I have a cigarette? You took my cigarettes yesterday…"

 

Kazuya rifled through his draw, then plunged his hands into his pockets. He pulled out a box and rattled it. One left. He handed it to Chaolan.

 

"Never let them see they've hurt you."

 

Chaolan took the cigarette,

 

"You've always been better at that than me."

 

"Nah," Kazuya crashed his weight back onto the bed as the springs protested his weight, "I get angry too quickly. You're good at misdirecting, making people think and talk more about themselves – rolling with the punches. I meet confrontation face on," he punched his fist into his open palm, "makes me predictable. Easy to read. I need to control my anger."

 

"You never look hurt though. You never cry out, never shed any tears."

 

"Never give them the satisfaction."

 

"I want that. What you have. Absolute resolve. Steel in the face of pain and humiliation."

 

"If you'd had that yesterday you'd have a broken hand today instead of just a strained tendon."

 

"You stopped him from doing that, not me."

 

"But _he_ stopped me. Because you asked him to."

 

"What I say doesn't make the blindest bit of difference to what he does or does not do. And… I thought you said you wouldn't have gone through with it anyway…"

 

"Right," Kazuya said quickly. "But the point still stands."

 

Chaolan gave him and uncertain look. He pocketed the cigarette and then pushed open the door to the en suite bathroom.

 

"Wait for me to go downstairs?"

 

Kazuya gave a vague nod of assent and flopped back on the bed. He listened to the en suite door close, to the sound of running water, to the bathroom cabinet door opening and its magnet clasp clicking back as it shut. He let out a heavy sigh. He shouldn't have let Chaolan persuade him to intervene on his behalf with Heihachi. It was true Chaolan had taken a lot this week, but when Kazuya got involved things always escalated quickly. Someone would end up in hospital if he wasn't careful. _Stay calm. Roll with the punches. Don't let anyone under your skin._ But that was all easier said than done when his every breath pulled was done out of spite. He lived because he'd dared to, and that bitter defiance couldn't just be watered down for a business conference.

 

***

 

The day had been long. Long like bleached bones in a desert under a hot sun. They had both gone about menial tasks passing fake smiles for hours with Heihachi breathing down their necks, watching them eagle-eyed. Their only relief had been lunch, when Heihachi had been cornered by business associates looking to ingratiate themselves with him. Kazuya and Chaolan had piled plates high and darted to a corner to wolf down their food without the weight of his stare on them. Wang Jinrei had appeared and sat down with them, commenting on how well they looked, how grown-up they seemed attending an event like this, and how he remembered when they only came up to his middle. They let him talk uninterrupted until he finally realised that neither of them were in the mood for pretences and idle chat in their only Heihachi-free fifteen minutes of the day.

 

By evening they were both mentally exhausted, but Heihachi had announced his intentions to go to a soirée – the main social event of the conference. He of course wished to attend the thing with his sons at each arm.

 

"He should take Jinrei instead," Kazuya hissed at Chaolan in one of the rare moments when Heihachi's ears and eyes were turned elsewhere. "The old fool smiles and nods at everything he says. That's all he wants us there for anyway."

 

"Give Jinrei a break. He doesn't like what Father does any more than we do."

 

"Must be terrible for him – sitting back and watching others suffer whilst he says and does nothing."

 

"He's an old man, Kaz. You know he couldn't take Father on if he tried."

 

"He was twenty years younger when he gave up trying," Kazuya snapped.

 

Chaolan left the argument. The unspoken _you weren't there_ , _you wouldn't understand_ sounded in Kazuya's words. Even after all they'd been through together, there were still things that had shaped them in the few years they hadn't shared that would remain an enigma to the other. For Chaolan, it was stories of almost mythical proportions: the overthrow of Kazuya's grandfather and Heihachi's seizing of the Zaibatsu, the death of Kazuya's mother, the fateful day when Kazuya was thrown into a ravine and sustained the jagged red scars that still striped his body today. He'd grown up with these dread stories and the terror that something similar would befall him. He'd grown up trying to feel lucky that not only did he have a roof, and warmth, clothes, and food, but he'd thus far been spared the fate that others under this roof had suffered before him. Kazuya for his part knew there were things from before Chaolan came to his home that would forever dog him. There was a lean, hungry, fierce, furtive thing underneath the layers and layers of fine tailored masks that he wore. Kazuya liked it when Chaolan was relaxed, easy-going, all lazy humour at other people's expenses. Sometimes he wondered though, if the real Chaolan was still the hunted, wily, dangerous creature with wild eyes that he caught glimpses of when they sparred, and crept into his room to curl up close when Heihachi had terrified him.

 

"Just a few more hours," Chaolan took a deep breath, "a few more hours and I can be in a bubble bath and this sorry day can end." He covered his weary eyes with a hand and rubbed his temple. His hand ached and his throat still felt raw, and even the bruises from the sparring match with Kazuya felt increasingly tangible the more this day wore on.

 

"He's looking this way."

 

Chaolan straightened immediately. He pulled his shoulders back and stood proud and tall. A dazzling smile lit his face. Kazuya hated the sight of it.

 

Heihachi strode over to them. He was in a maroon tailcoat with lace cuffs donned over a pure white suit and black shirt. Chaolan thought it was possibly the most ugly outfit he'd ever seen. He supposed he could be thankful his father hadn't decided on the black leather and tiger skin. He'd nearly died when his father walked out in public in the thing and demanded his sons in attendance.

 

"Better that than the tiger suit," Kazuya murmured, reading him perfectly as usual.

 

"My thoughts exactly," Chaolan managed back before they were firmly in their Father's presence.

 

Heihachi looked them over.

 

"I want you close this evening. No wandering too far. And no scowling, Kazuya."

 

"I'm not scowling, that's just my face."

 

A small smile escaped Heihachi, but it was underscored by threat:

 

"Then change your face, before I change it for you."

 

Kazuya straightened his shoulders. His eyes flashed dark, before he remembered his promise to try and keep confrontation to a minimum. He jerked his head in acknowledgement.

 

"Let me see your nice face, Kazuya." Heihachi's eyes bore into him. "Look at Chaolan. He's always so good as smiling for the public. _Show me._ "

 

Kazuya's lip twitched vaguely upwards like a dog baring its teeth. His brow was still furious and there was something predatory in his eyes. The effect was even more intimidating that usual.

 

"Better," Heihachi said. Chaolan couldn't see anything better about the attempt. "And I want to hear pleasantries from you to every person who approaches. We're a respected family, and I'll not have you dragging our reputation down with your temper."

 

Heihachi turned back around and checked a golden pocket watch. He pushed open the doors to the hotel ballroom, throwing the darkened corridor they'd been standing in into a glorious burnished colours.

 

"Glad I get to see this actually," Chaolan needled. "So going to be worth it." Kazuya glared at him. "Smiles only, Kaz."

 

"Watch it," Kazuya growled as they fell into step behind their father. "You better make this evening go as smoothly for me as you possibly can. For your sake."

 

That wiped the humour from Chaolan's face. He gave a quick terse smile and inclined his head. Then they were in the open, like gladiators entering an arena. The blink of white camera flashes shuttered through the air and a hasty applause was dredged from somewhere. Chaolan fought off the urge to check his hair was firmly covering the remainder of his bruised face. Kazuya immediately sunk into a black scowl.

 

The ballroom was bright with hanging chandeliers and bordered with buffet tables. A live string quartet was picking its way through some Brahms in the corner. The music had an unsettling urgency to it, but it hadn't stopped a brave couple from trying to waltz. The room was filled with black suited men and ladies in dresses of every shade of the rainbow. The Mishimas were the exception of course. Heihachi needed garish colours to match his expansive personality, Chaolan needed to look like a bird of paradise just to get out of bed in the morning, and even Kazuya saw no harm in dressing to impress. His choices were often more understated of the three, but he still knew how to look a cut above the average. The eyes of the room were drawn to them, and people began to move in eddying whirlpools, naturally gravitating towards them.

 

Chaolan graciously received a flute of champagne and Kazuya took one with a grunt. Heihachi was approached by two waiters at once, one from each side. He took a glass in each hand, making the people who'd gathered nearby laugh and admire his theatrics. Chaolan saw Kazuya roll his eyes.

 

"Think they mopped all your blood up off this floor?" Kazuya rasped in his ear when Heihachi wasn't looking. Chaolan jerked away from him but glanced around. It was indeed the same place they'd sparred in a few days ago.

 

"Think they mopped up all the brotherly concern you dropped whilst checking up on poor Chaolan?"

 

"Fuck off, I was never concerned about you."

 

"Never in your life have you been concerned about me."

 

"Right."

 

"Or concerned about anything ever."

 

"Exactly." Chaolan gave him a mischievous grin. It made Kazuya feel a little lighter inside. "Pay attention," Kazuya gestured around them, speaking in a soft undertone, "you're going to need to know who all these people are when you're working for me."

 

"So you can kill them all for boring you at a party when you were twenty-one?"

 

"Damn straight. And find out the names of those musicians. They can go on the list for being criminally dull."

 

Chaolan brought his good hand to his face to smother the sound of his laughter. They continued their hushed whispering until Heihachi turned around. He had his champagne glasses in each hand and a fixed smile on his face and lightening in his eyes. Chaolan and Kazuya averted their eyes and quickly turned their attention to the other evening guests.

 

Chaolan found himself in front of a man who introduced himself as a contractor in experimental weapons. He was exceptionally mundane, but his wife was a musician and Chaolan was all too happy to engage her in conversation.

 

"So what do you think of the performance this evening," he batted his eyelids at her. He did that to everyone, but it helped that she was beautiful too – dark green eyes and rich brown skin, hair twizzelled up on the top of her head with one curling lock left loose.

 

"Oh, I think it's marvellous, those violinists really know how to make their instruments sing." She spoke with West End London accent and pronounced every letter that came out of her mouth. Chaolan decided he was in love.

 

"Are you a violinist yourself?"

 

"No no, I-"

 

"Nadira isn't that sort of musician," her husband interrupted, "now, Mr Lee, about Mishima Industries – my understanding is that you own all the powerplants in Hokkaido – what I want to know is-"

 

"I actually play the synthesiser," Nadira smiled.

 

"You do?!" Chaolan became excited, "have you checked out some the clubs around here?"

 

"The techno clubs you mean?"

 

Chaolan's face lit up,

 

"They're really something, if you haven't visited yet."

 

"Well it's half the reason I accompanied Bernard on this trip! I'm not usually one to attend conventions like this, even as a plus one. But Berlin? West _and_ east? It was a chance I simply couldn't say no to. Hardly anyone in London I know has been here since the wall came down, this trip is going to be the talk of Soho. I haven't gotten to any Berlin clubs yet, but Bernard and I plan to go once the convention is over. What would you recommend?"

 

Chaolan chatted animately about acid house clubs and techno nights for the next ten minutes much to the despair of one Mr Bernard Cooper. Chaolan would have happily spent the rest of the evening talking to the couple, but a rude man with a powerful stature angled his way in and the Coopers left to refill their drinks.

 

"This must be the adopted Mishima!" The man exclaimed. _Off to a good start,_ Chaolan thought sourly. He reached for a second champagne from a passing tray and surveyed the speaker. He wore a corduroy brown suit with a pink carnation and thick black glasses and spoke with an American accent.

 

"Lee Chaolan," Chaolan extended him a hand.

 

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Lee. It's Harvey Hargreaves," the man shook the hand. Chaolan had been hoping to put him on the back foot by correcting the use of the wrong name, but the man surprised him by getting it right. He had a canny look in his eye, as if he might be aware of that. "I've just been speaking with Mr Heihachi, an old friend of mine." All the stress was on the wrong syllables of Heihachi's name, and Chaolan refused to believe the man was enough of a friend to be on firstname bases – he hadn't heard of him after all, and he'd remember a name like Harvey Hargreaves.

 

"Mr Heihachi was telling me you're soon to be away to the States."

 

Chaolan's face froze in its niceties. Chaolan only knew about this via Kazuya. Heihachi hadn't even spoken to him directly about it, but apparently he was already informing strangers. Chaolan gave a strained smile.

 

"He said that, did he?"

 

"Now, I don't know if you've chosen which school you want to study Business at, but let me tell you, where you really want to be is Harvard. That's where I studied. Harvey Hargreaves at Harvard," the man gave a loud barking laugh. Chaolan's face remained empty.

 

"Most amusing."

 

"Are you not one for humour, Mr Lee? I suppose it might be a culture thing. You Japanese never get an American sense of humour. Oh – but, you're not Japanese, am I right in thinking?"

 

This was something of a touchy subject. Chaolan had long adopted the practice of throwing his loyalty at whichever country people claimed he wasn't from.

 

"I grew up in Japan from a young age," he said testily.

 

"Sure, sure. And my granny's from Kansas, but you know how it is!" Chaolan stared at him, not following at all. "Forget it, forget it." The man waved him down.

 

Chaolan wished the man had taken his own advice. He had to listen to him explaining how Japanese and Chinese culture were 'practically the same anyway' for the next ten minutes before Chaolan managed to excuse himself to get another drink.

 

After he'd got his drink, he saw the man craning his neck to find him again, so Chaolan ducked and weaved through the crowd until he broke through the edge. He stopped short when he came upon a familiar face.

 

"Bruce?!"

 

Bruce Irvin was standing in his plain shirt and slacks, wearing Chaolan's tie, with press card hanging around his neck.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

"Sh sh," Bruce glanced around, "here on Kazuya's orders."

 

"Of course you are," Chaolan grated. His brother could never just keep things clean and simple.

 

"Here to smooth things over with the press."

 

"Wearing a press card doesn't make you a journalist, Bruce."

 

"I know that – and keep it down will you? I've got other things up my sleeve though." Bruce glanced around. Chaolan scowled. He lingered though. Bruce was much better company than Harvey Hargreaves. "Here watch this," Bruce said with a daring that reminded Chaolan of Kazuya. He waited until a woman with a press card about her neck was walking passed then swivelled back to Chaolan. "Wait, he did _what?_ " Chaolan's face pulled a complete blank at the sudden attention. "Mr Lee, are you telling me, Kazuya Mishima donated _all that_ to a Mexican orphanage? How is this not already a story? There was an article just two days ago about him, but no one said anything about his charity!"

 

Chaolan was finally catching on. The journalist behind them had paused in her stride. She made a show of looking at her watch to justify the hesitation.

 

Chaolan cleared his throat,

 

"I suppose no one's interested in the inside story. My brother's always been a believer in doing the right thing. It broke my heart to hear people writing such terrible things about him. Especially when they spoke about our relationship as brothers. As if he hasn't always been so kind and dear to me."

 

"Well, listen, Mr Lee. I'd be really interested in hearing your side of the story – maybe we can meet up next week some time to get you in writing? This is going to make big headlines."

 

"Uh… sure." Chaolan was watching the journalist over Bruce's shoulder. She pulled out a notepad and hurried off to one side.

 

"Aaaand, done," Bruce winked at him.

 

Chaolan was impressed.

 

"And here I thought you were only good at kneeing people in the face."

 

"Man of many talents. I'm pretty good with an assault rifle too."

 

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Kazuya wouldn't want you telling me that."

 

Bruce frowned,

 

"Why not? You're on his side, aren't you?"

 

"I'm on _my_ side," Chaolan corrected, "and regardless, he likes to keep these little side projects a secret."

 

"How'd you know he's got _any_ side projects if they're secret?"

 

"Well, _I_ like finding out about them. That's my speciality, if you like. Kazuya makes secrets and I find them out." Chaolan gave him a glittering smile.

 

"Huh. Kinda get why he moans about you all the time now."

 

"I am dazzlingly good at getting under his skin, but rest assured, it's a mutual endeavour. My life would be ten times easier if he didn't have to turn every waking second into a fight with our father." Chaolan took a long sip of his champagne, before frowning, "You're not drinking?"

 

"I'm working."

 

"As a journalist at a high end party. It's positively conspicuous if you're not drinking. Here-" He placed his empty glass on the buffet stand and swiped two full ones, handing one to Bruce. Bruce took it uncertainly.

 

"Won't Kazuya…"

 

"Blame me if he says something. Hm, do you want a pink biscuit thing?"

 

"Huh?"

 

Chaolan picked up a delicate cracker topped with a coil of smoked salmon and a sprig of parsley from the buffet table. He offered it to Bruce like he was going to post it through his mouth. Bruce retreated when Chaolan entered his personal space, but Chaolan just laughed and ate the thing himself.

 

"Are you always like this?" Bruce glowered.

 

"Like what?" Chaolan's eyes twinkled and he popped another cracker in his mouth.

 

"All up in people's space and making things awkward."

 

"Only when I like them," he gave Bruce a wink and was pleased by the outrage on the man's face. "Keep up the good work. I'll let Kaz know you're doing an excellent job." He vanished into the crowd before Bruce could find his tongue.

 

The string quartet had picket up the pace a little, and were almost audible over the sea of murmuring voices filling the ballroom. Chaolan moved seamlessly between between fine suits and flowing dresses until he spied a large space with Kazuya in the middle.

 

"Scared everyone off already?"

 

Kazuya's eyes flicked up from some reverie, and Chaolan was surprised to see there was a hint of fondness in them.

 

"Mm," he admitted.

 

"It's that aura you give off. The one that makes people feel like you're about a minute away from hitting them."

 

"You getting that aura right now, Chaolan?"

 

"Sure, but I hit back." Chaolan glanced around to make sure Heihachi was nowhere nearby, he'd be angry if he saw they were talking to one another and not the other guests. "Just met your man Irvin posing as press."

 

"Oh, he got here then. Good."

 

"What were you thinking, Kaz, he looks about as journalist as you do approachable."

 

"Journalists come in all sizes."

 

"Yes, but experienced Muay Thai bruisers with scars and muscles the size of watermelons doesn't scream a life devoted to the pen, does it. You need to be more careful. If Father-"

 

"-Won't find out about it if you aren't whining about it some place he might hear."

 

"I thought you were going to keep a low profile? You promised that today would…" Chaolan trailed off. Perhaps Kazuya had been jesting when he said he'd keep them both safe today. The thought made his chest clench. The idea that something so important to him might have been idle talk made him feel small and foolish and a little unwell.

 

"I _am_ keeping a low profile. Bruce is helping me make it lower. Passing around nice stories. And spying. I've managed to make a lot of enemies in just a few days." He seemed to sense Chaolan's change in mood. "I've got this. We'll be fine." His usually violent dark eyes softened slightly. Chaolan searched in them, checking for insincerity.

 

"Okay," and Chaolan became glowing and impressionable again.

 

"Now get going, we need to look like we're doing what Father wants."

 

"I'd rather stay with you."

 

Kazuya gave a huff, Chaolan was always affectionate when Kazuya gave him an ounce of warmth.

 

"I give off an aura like I'm about to hit people, remember?"

 

"An added bonus. Some of these people are such morons. I had one guy explaining the differences between Chinese and Japanese culture to me. Or the lack thereof in his opinion."

 

Kazuya's face darkened and Chaolan saw an edge creep into his gaze.

 

"Someone giving you trouble?"

 

There had been trouble in the past. Not often. But occasionally someone would make a callous remark over Chaolan's heritage – either the lowly economic status he'd been raised from, or something about his home country: thoughtless comments that barbed in places that had always remained raw, because no one was more aware than Chaolan of how different his background was to the family he'd been adopted into.

 

"Nothing like that."

 

Kazuya regarded him with a gaze full of threat. It warmed Chaolan that Kazuya would get defensive on his behalf, but it really wasn't worth the effort when Kazuya's vengeance stirred up much more trouble than it attempted to solve.

 

"Stay out of trouble," Chaolan gave him a rare genuine smile and squeezed his shoulder before slipping off again. Kazuya was left frowning and contemplating if he should follow to get the name of this impetuous person who'd offended Chaolan. Perhaps he'd find them himself if he glared enough at the people around him.

 

A waiter offered him more champagne but he declined it. He wanted to eat before he drank more. His temper always simmered hotter the more alcohol he consumed, and if he wanted any chance of fulfilling his trouble-free promise to Chaolan… He wandered towards a buffet table. As he moved crowds naturally parted around him. He gave a slight nod when he caught anyone's eye but otherwise remained unapproached. He picked at food and inspected something on the table every time someone looked like they might want to speak to him. The only time he looked up was when he noticed a furtive movement, as if someone else, too, was trying not to be noticed.

 

"Mr De Rochefort," he greeted.

 

Rochefort turned around. He had a plate in his hand and nothing on it, as if perhaps he'd been thinking of getting food, but had thought better of it on seeing Kazuya.

 

"Mr Mishima," Rochefort said weakly. "I… er… very much enjoyed your presentation yesterday." The man looked so uncomfortable that it warmed the sadist parts of Kazuya and he fixed his gaze upon him with even more determination.

 

"Thank you," Kazuya said graciously. He could be charming when he wanted to be. It just almost always went hand in hand with being predatory. "Have you spoken with my father this evening?"

 

"No," Rochefort took a step away from him, keeping his eyes on Kazuya whilst he felt for a fruit bowl, "should I have?"

 

"I was merely curious. I was discussing our new arrangement with him yesterday. He seemed pleased by the contract. He was asking if you felt likewise." Kazuya let the full intensity of his gaze rest expectantly on Rochefort. The man pushed his glasses up onto his nose and gave a quick smile.

 

"O-of course I'm pleased with it. I signed it didn't I? You drive a hard bargain, Mr Mishima, but you also made a valid point. The future is with the Mishima after all."

 

"Good. Perhaps you can reassure my father when you have a moment. He's labouring under the false impression that I may have coerced you into it."

 

"C-coerced me!? Haha," Rochefort laughed nervously. His eyes travelled over Kazuya, noting the scars and muscle and fire in his eyes. "I'll be sure to reassure him to the contrary, Mr Mishima. I think we get on very well you and I, and that this will be the start of a long friendship."

 

Kazuya gave him a slow smile,

 

"Glad to hear it."

 

Kazuya was feeling good about tonight. He leaned back on the buffet table and threw a few grapes into his mouth. Bruce was here hopefully nudging the press in the right direction, Rochefort was going to sing his praises to his father, Chaolan wasn't angry at him, altogether this had the makings of a fine evening.

 

He spent the next fifteen minutes stalking Chaolan from a distance in an effort to pinpoint the man who'd offended him. It wasn't that he was looking for conflict, he told himself, he was just fulfilling his promise to make things go smoother for his brother this evening. He lapsed into pleasant daydreams of violence and the subtle ways he might be able to hurt such a character without drawing his father's attention. Perhaps he'd follow the offender to a bathroom, smash through a couple of his teeth and make the man swallow them, that would teach him to keep his racist mouth shut and think twice about insulting a member of the Mishima family. He was snapped out of his reverie by the sight of a stranger Chaolan was conversing with reaching out to touch his silken silver hair. Kazuya shouldered his way through and batted the hand away.

 

"Hands to yourself," he snarled. The young woman in question was maybe ten years their senior and looked most put out. People were always poking and prodding his brother, as if his eccentricities turned him into some kind of petting zoo. Kazuya was very aware of the sudden attention and surprise his action had drawn, both from the young woman, Chaolan, and a number of bystanders. He hurried to clarify his actions, "Chaolan belongs to the Zaibatsu."

 

The young woman excused herself as Chaolan offered his usual apologies to cover up the confusion.

 

"Really, Kazuya," Chaolan turned to him as soon as they had some relative privacy. "I did not need that interjection." Kazuya scowled, unsure how to convey how uncomfortable the covetous look in the woman's eye had made him. " _Belongs to the Zaibatsu?_ Possessive much in your choice of language?"

 

"The words got mixed up," Kazuya muttered, just glad that the moment was over. "I don't understand why people are always… fawning. They don't respect your place in the Zaibatsu. It pisses me off."

 

"People _fawning_ is my version of power, Kaz. You've cornered the market on fear, so some of us have to make do with other wiles. Although I appreciate this attempt at salvaging my honour, having people underestimate me happens to be the strongest weapon in my arsenal, so kindly stop interrupting me."

 

"You let people walk all over you."

 

"I let people _think_ they're walking all over me. There's a very big difference, dear brother." Kazuya folded his arms and looked awkward and petulant. Chaolan sighed, "soon this will be over, and we can get away from all these empty people with their empty lives, ok?" he murmured, "we're nearly in the clear."

 

"Don't let people do that though. Not unless you want it. Don't let them touch you just because you think you have to."

 

"Kaz…" Chaolan watched the uncertain things hovering in his brother's brow and gave him a tired smile. He caught sight of an odd flash over Kazuya's shoulder. A wink of light like one of the chandelier lightbulbs. But far off on the left in the darkness of the balcony level.

 

In a second, Chaolan had grabbed Kazuya, sweeping him round in his arms and shielding him with his body. A gunshot rang out like a thunderclap in the ballroom.


	9. A Doom Foretold

The things that happened next were so fast that Kazuya's world became a blur.

 

One moment he was scowling and slouching and trying to justify his abrupt interruption into Chaolan's affairs, and the next his feet went out from under him. His first thought was that his brother had finally cracked, and was ballroom dancing with him in public.

 

The next moment, there was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Kazuya had heard enough of them to know. And a pain, like a growing, numb ache just under his collar bone. Chaolan's lean muscled arms were becoming slack and he dropped Kazuya to the ground and promptly collapsed on top of him.

 

His white suit was blossoming into deep shades of red. His eyes were already half lidded and his breathing was doing strange fluttery things. Kazuya pulled him into his arms and turned him over. He flicked aside Chaolan's blazer and immediately pressed his hand to the darkest reddest patch, on the right side of Chaolan's chest. He could feel panic starting.

 

All around him there was commotion. Shouting, screaming, people pushing, and feet not caring that they were on the floor, not caring that that was Chaolan's blood they were sliding in. Kazuya's eyes snapped to the balcony as he saw a flash of light. The scope of a sniper rifle swivelled, seeking a second shot. A lithe, powerful figure launched itself at the balcony, and Kazuya saw Bruce Irvin catch the balustrade and haul himself up. The sniper grabbed their weapon and Kazuya had a second to note they were head to toe in black, with a black balaclava. They pulled a device from their side and shot a grappling hook at the ballroom ceiling as Bruce bowled towards them. The line snagged a chandelier fitting, and the sniper leapt off the balcony. They swung in an arc above the crowds and straight through one of the French windows, shattering the glass with their boots and littering the guests with shards of glass. The sound of tinkling glass joined the shouts and screams.

 

People were tripping over Chaolan's slumped legs in an effort to get out now. Kazuya could feel a helpless lethargy taking over him as he tried to collect his brother's unconscious body to him.

 

"Father!" he shouted, "Father!"

 

Heihachi's face appeared above him, furious concern in his eyebrows. When Kazuya looked up at him he had a sudden flashback to the years of his youth, when this man had towered above him and that same feeling of drowning helplessness had threatened to suffocate him.

 

"Father!" The word came out like a plea. To his relief Heihachi knelt down at his side.

 

"Let me see," he said gruffly, but Kazuya was too worried to remove the pressure from his brother's chest. His face became a picture of confusion with his father's attention was immediately on him.

 

"It's Chaolan," he tried to explain, "Chaolan's been shot."

 

Heihachi had pulled back the lapel of Kazuya's blazer, and Kazuya looked down in surprise to see a deep red ring of his own around that searing point below his collar bone. Heihachi's firm hands checked the wound, making Kazuya hiss in pain.

 

"Very shallow," Heihachi muttered, "can pretty much see the bullet. Surface wound."

 

" _Chaolan,_ " Kazuya reiterated, confused about why he had the attention when Chaolan was clearly leaking his insides all over the floor. Kazuya watched as the pool of blood around them kept expanding. It was easier to see the more people ran from the ballroom.

 

"Get me a medic!" Heihachi ordered, and the few remaining hotel staff hurried to obey. Neither the sniper nor Bruce were anywhere to be seen. The ballroom was almost deserted now. There were sliding bloody footprints all the way to the door. The night air was coming in chill gusts through the smashed window. The abandoned grapple line was hanging like a black snake from a swinging chandelier.

 

Kazuya could feel warm blood seeping through his trousers where Chaolan was resting on him. A flock of black suits with Zaibatsu logos on their chests rushed into the ballroom and formed a screen around them, smart black trousers becoming a dark forest to shield the brothers from view. Kazuya bared his teeth: he needed a doctor, not bodyguards who were too late to stop a gunshot. He snarled and swore at them, but Heihachi snapped his fingers, indicating that they owed him all their attention. He spoke softly with his employees giving orders and no doubt already scheming to spin the attack in the best way possible for the Zaibatsu. His sons were bleeding onto the floor and he could somehow be thinking of tomorrow's headlines. Kazuya regarded him with open hatred in the moments where he wasn't staring at Chaolan and the way his blood kept oozing sticky through his fingers.

 

Kazuya had grown up with blood on his hands – mostly his own, sometimes Chaolan's, later others had joined a list that gradually got longer. He didn't tend to do dirty work himself, but he'd certainly done his fair share of brutal interrogations, not even starting to talk of the blood that had flowed for him in international fighting arenas. It had never been quite like this though – so close, so messy. And he was almost always the one causing the damage, not trying to keep the blood inside with only his bare hands. His bare hands that were only good at breaking things. He couldn't fix this. It had never occurred to him until how much easier it was to break people than fix them. An overwhelming helplessness came with that knowledge.

 

He couldn't even fix himself when he had fallen. There had been a lot of blood then too. And so much more pain. Nothing in his life had come close to that pain. Or perhaps being a child had blown the memory out of proportion. The smell of blood in the ballroom brought back the taste of it in his mouth, the feel of it pouring down his face. Things had been broken then that couldn't be fixed. No paramedics had appeared on the scene for small, broken, Mishima Kazuya. Perhaps if they had things might have been different. He might have been less desperate to take whatever help he could…

 

It seemed like an eternity before the wail of an ambulance siren blared through the black window, and another age until the frantic stamp of feet was coming up into the ballroom.

 

"He's shot in the left shoulder, the bullet's still in there," Heihachi explained to a group of paramedics, pointing at Kazuya, "see to him first. I'm Mishima Heihachi." The screen of Zaibatsu guards opened up to allow the paramedics through.

 

"Not me!" Kazuya snapped as the medics reached gloved hands to him. "Look at _him_!" he expelled forcefully, shrugging the hands off him. His shoulder protested in pain.

 

"Kazuya!" his father said sharply, "let them see to you."

 

"Lay a fucking finger on me and I'll break it!" Kazuya snarled, "will someone stop my brother fucking _bleeding_ everywhere _?!_ "

 

"Kazuya," Heihachi came close.

 

"You back the fuck off!" Kazuya hugged Chaolan to him and tried to pull away from Heihachi. There was a mad flutter in his chest as he realised how painfully vulnerable he felt before his father just then. He was five-years-old again: a child who was too small, too weak, too powerless to stop the adult world from doing whatever it pleased to him. Too weak to stop Heihachi. Not the force behind the kicks that cut through his feeble punches, not the hands that picked him up like he was nothing, not the wind furling like a raging beast at the precipice edge, not the gravity dragging him down, down, down, not the rocks that came up to meet him, not the blood and agony that came after, not the voices that whispered to him from beyond the veil that all he had to do was say the word, say the word and this could all stop, say the word and let a darker older power remake him out of hate. "S-stay away from me!" His wild eyes flashed at his father and he couldn't quite keep that fear from sounding in his voice. "No one comes near me until my brother's got medical attention!"

 

One medic talked Heihachi down, whilst another two agreed to tend to Chaolan. They had trouble convincing Kazuya to release his grip enough to attend to the gunshot wound. They spoke to him calmly whilst trying to work around his fury and panic.

 

"I don't understand," Kazuya heard himself say, "why is he bleeding so much if I've got the bullet? There was just one shot. I think there was just one shot."

 

"Calm down, Mr Mishima. It looks like the bullet passed straight through this young man, you say he's your brother?"

 

"Yes, he's my brother. This is my brother."

 

"Alright, we need you to let go, Mr Mishima, we're doing all we can to help him now. He probably saved your life. The bullet lost most of its energy as it travelled through him. It's close to your heart, but very shallow. Looks like it missed anything vital thanks to your brother. Will you let us take a look at that for you now?"

 

"Don't _thank_ him, fucking save him. _Do_ something."

 

"We're doing what we can for him now, Mr Mishima-"

 

"You're not! You're still doing what _he's_ telling you _,_ " he glared over at where Heihachi was having a heated discussion with one of the paramedics.

 

"We're not," he was told gently, "we're handling Mr Mishima's request as we speak, and in the mean time we're going to make sure your brother gets the top quality care. We need to take a look at you too, and then you can ride with him in the ambulance, alright?"

 

Kazuya glared at the paramedic speaking with him. He had patient green eyes with a hardened honesty to them. His English was heavily accented with angular German, but his voice was calm and professional. Kazuya nodded slowly. He relented a little with his grip and the paramedics lifted Chaolan off him, lying him flat on the floor. Chaolan looked strangely limp, like all the life had drained out of him. His silvery hair was all stained with brownish blood and splayed around him in a way that live Chaolan would never have permitted. He somehow still looked ethereal and peaceful, with a serenity touching his slightly parted lips and closed eyes. Looking at him like that stirred primal fears in Kazuya that he had not felt in decades. His mind went to the day they'd dressed his mother in white and painted her face just the way she had in life. They'd pulled her kimono high to cover the marks where Heihachi had grasped her throat. The marks on Chaolan's throat were visible, though he didn't imagine the paramedics had time to take mind of that as they cut open Chaolan's shirt to get to the bullet wound quickly. He was dimly aware of someone inspecting his own wound, but couldn't bring himself to care.

 

"Is he dead?" Kazuya asked.

 

"No. He needs a hospital though."

 

Chaolan was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled out. Kazuya insisted on staying nearby, but struggled to keep pace with the trolley. Heihachi strode up to him.

 

"You stay away from us!" Kazuya spat at him.

 

"Poor boy," Heihachi smiled at the remaining paramedic who was walking Kazuya out, "doesn't know what he's saying." Heihachi returned his gaze to Kazuya and shot him with a flint hard look. He leaned close and took Kazuya by the shoulder so that he couldn't jerk away. Kazuya felt the bullet wound flare up and spikes of pain lanced through his chest. His lip twitched but he'd schooled himself not to flinch under Heihachi's grip long ago. "Mind your tongue and keep your head, or I will make you regret this day."

 

Kazuya was vividly aware of how heavy his father's grasp was, and of how not in his prime he himself felt at this moment. There was a slight spinning in his head and the throbbing in his shoulder was becoming a steady burning now that the adrenaline of the moment was wearing off. He turned stubbornly on Heihachi, scowling out through hooded, dark eyes.

 

"It is you who will regret this day if another one of my family dies as a consequence of your actions."

 

He pulled himself free of his father's grip and let himself be led out of the hotel by the paramedic.

 

***

 

Kazuya barely remembered anything of the ambulance ride save the pale sheen of Chaolan's face and the screech of tires on wet tarmac.

 

They wouldn't let him follow Chaolan into surgery, even after he tried to punch someone into submission. Two security guards came to wrestle him into a hospital bed, but before they could lay hands on him Heihachi had arrived and the scene fell into a reluctant peace wordlessly.

 

The operation to remove Kazuya's bullet lasted minutes. As his father had said, the bullet was almost visible. It was plucked from his chest, and half an hour later Kazuya was back in a bed with a bandage over the wound, holding up the incriminating bullet to his bed light to inspect it. Rain was pouring outside the window. There was a blink of lightening followed by a low rumble of thunder. His bedside light flickered and buzzed slightly whilst he turned the bullet under it.

 

"This bullet has a fucking Mishima logo on it," he said to his father.

 

Heihachi shrugged. He was sitting in an armchair next to the bed, shoulders hunched in his maroon tailcoat, large scarred hands interlocked. His finery looked bedraggled after the rain and the commotion.

 

"Not that surprising. Most bullets do these days."

 

"Shooting me with my own fucking weapons." Kazuya lay back in the bed. It was a testament to perhaps how much the event had shaken Heihachi too, that he didn't bother to correct Kazuya on his claim to ownership.

 

"Did you see the shooter?"

 

"All in black. Face covered. Sniper rifle. I have a man on it," Kazuya replied.

 

Heihachi raised an eyebrow,

 

"You do?"

 

Kazuya said nothing more, rolling the bullet between his fingers. It was squashed and deformed from its flight. Strange to think he and his brother had been hospitalised by one small lump of metal. A lifetime of training and this small thing with a Mishima crest carved into its butt was all it took to undo them.

 

"How's Chaolan?" Kazuya asked.

 

"Still in surgery."

 

Kazuya looked at his father, cold and accusatory. He left unsaid all the black things he wanted to say. He wasn't in any shape to back up the anger he felt.

 

"Any idea who might be behind this attack?" Heihachi pressed.

 

"I could write a book full of possible suspects."

 

This wouldn't be the first time there had been assassins sent after him. Heihachi had had his share too. The Mishima family had made many enemies over the years.

 

Heihachi stood. Kazuya followed him with his eyes.

 

"Rest and recover. I'll have someone posted on your door and Chaolan's when he's out. I have work to do tracking down this suspect. Inform me if you hear anything."

 

Kazuya gave him a curt nod. He watched him leave with hard hatred still in his stare.

 

***

 

Raindrops tapped softly on a tilted open glass window pane. The beep of traffic on the road below melded with the grumble of thunder. A gust of wind shook the white hospital blinds.

 

The first thing Chaolan noticed was a riot of colours. Stunning displays of ornate flowers smothered in rippling silver plastic wrappers stormed the foot of his bed like a graveyard: carnations, roses, chrysanthemums, marigolds, lilies, narcissuses, and orchids. Their scent permeated the air, soft and florid. His eyelids fluttered. He drew his gaze slowly to the right. In the far corner of the room Heihachi sat in a comfortable armchair reading a newspaper. Fear immediately clenched in Chaolan's gut. His eyes swivelled wildly, and it was only then that he saw the chair directly at his side. Kazuya sat in an indigo open neck shirt that revealed a bandage wound over his chest. He was hunched over himself, hands clasped, head bowed. Chaolan's panic dissipated.

 

"Hey." He meant it to sound casual, but it came out weak and croaked. Kazuya's eyes snapped up. Their burning intensity set Chaolan at ease. He could read the past there: pain, anxiety, fear, the extent of his own injuries, the possibility he might not wake up. "Sorry for worrying you."

 

"You idiot!" Kazuya spat, getting up and cramming himself onto the little space at the edge of the bed. "What fucking moron puts himself in the _path_ of a bullet!?"

 

Chaolan gave him an apologetic smile.

 

"Had to think quickly," he admitted.

 

"Think fucking quicker! And don't ever do something so stupid again!" Kazuya's face was furious, his eyebrows pulled into thick dark angles, his eyes intense enough to make most tremble. Chaolan's smile was butter soft and his expression all tender. "And stop looking smug like that when you nearly got yourself killed!" Chaolan struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. Pain sprouted with the wings of wildfire in his chest and down his back. Kazuya placed a heavy hand on his chest. "No moving yet," he said, in a voice utterly different from his rage a moment before.

 

Chaolan relented. His eyes moved over the flowers again at the end of the bed.

 

"You brought me lilies," he said, soft enough to keep their conversation away from prying ears.

 

"Handfuls of people terrified of the corporation bought you bags of meaningless flowers."

 

"And you hid lilies in there, thinking I wouldn't notice they're from you. White. My favourite. No one else ever remembers that."

 

Kazuya glared at him, though his cheeks did redden a fraction.

 

"You took a fucking bullet for me. Flowers aren't exactly a big deal after that."

 

"Hmm," Chaolan made a pleased noise when his guess was confirmed, "you're very sweary. Guess I must have worried you bad."

 

A haunted, terrible look briefly passed over Kazuya's face, and Chaolan regretted making light of that. He couldn't imagine what state he'd be in if their situations had been reversed. The possibility of a lifetime alone with that man in the corner. His eyes strayed over to Heihachi. He was still reading his paper.

 

A knock sounded on the hospital room door. A guard in Zaibatsu uniform opened it to allow in a hospital nurse.

 

"There's a call for Mr Mishima at the front desk."

 

Heihachi and Kazuya both looked up.

 

"Oh," the nurse looked back at the notes he'd taken, "for Kazuya Mishima?"

 

Kazuya stood. Chaolan caught caught his middle finger and clasped it tight. Kazuya gave him a warning look, glancing back at Heihachi. He angled himself to hide the contact. Chaolan shook his head, he beckoned Kazuya closer.

 

"Don't leave me," Chaolan whispered, "don't leave me here with him."

 

"It might be Bruce with a lead on the sniper who shot us."

 

"I don't care about the sniper. I don't want to be alone. Not with father. Not like this. Please, Kaz."

 

"This could be our chance to find out who's responsible."

 

"I don't care. They probably have good reason. Knowing us and knowing the Zaibatsu, they definitely have a good reason. But I don't care. I don't care who did it. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we pulled through. We've got each others backs. There'll always be someone out there who hates us and what we do. But at least we can be here for each other. I don't want revenge, Kaz. I just want to feel safe now. Stay with me. Please."

 

Kazuya squeezed his hand,

 

"I'll be back soon." He left. The door clicked shut behind him. The room felt colder.

 

There was a long, empty silence. The rain sounded louder on the windows. Its drumming filled the room.

 

Heihachi folded up his newspaper, stood and set it on the chair. His footsteps echoed around the ward room. He came and sat in the chair Kazuya had vacated. Chaolan shrunk into the pale, hospital bedsheets. He lifted uncertain eyes to his father, unsure what he would see there. Dark brown eyes under fearsome black eyebrows regarded him. A face with hard lines, thin lips framed by a black moustache.

 

"You did well," Heihachi said quietly. Chaolan watched him with trepidation, waiting for the caveat. "You're actions saved Kazuya's life. I am pleased." Chaolan kept watching him guardedly. He had matured enough to stave off the hope of Heihachi's approval whenever it looked like he might be close to catching it. Heihachi looked contemplative. He interlocked his fingers and looked straight forward. "I'm glad you remembered what I told you all those years ago." Chaolan's expression soured and a stone weight fell in his chest as Heihachi continued. "There is, after all, only one heir to the Mishima Zaibatsu."

 

At least he'd known better than to dare hope this was something better. A bitter stubbornness fell over Chaolan so that despite being no blood relation, he looked unmistakably Kazuya's brother.

 

"I didn't do it for you," Chaolan said coldly.

 

"I know." Heihachi's gaze returned to him. "You and Kazuya have quite the bond. You seem to think I haven't noticed its growth over the last few years. I have. But don't worry, I shall put an end to all that. I'm sending you to America. It should give me plenty of time to remind Kazuya where he should place his focus and concentration, and to remind him that you are not a necessary feature of his life. There was a time before all this, after all. You were meant to harden him, Chaolan, but now all I see is his weakness around you. That will be corrected." Heihachi stood and rested a hand on Chaolan's head. It was a pale shadow of the affection Chaolan had striven for from him all his life. "Good work keeping my son alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to bed after I wrote that last line and suddenly realised this is where the story needed to end. It's done all I want it to do, and it finishes every arc I wanted to finish. I'm one of those people who always drags out an ending and sticks an epilogue on the end, but this time I knew I wanted this to stop just here and go no futher. Thanks so much for reading and sorry for leaving you with all these mixed emotions and bitter endings. Hopefully you can see why I've done what I have! Your comments and support have meant a lot to me as I've been posting this and I've been inspired to keep writing Tekken.
> 
> Next week I'm going to start releasing the first few chapters of my new Tekken fic: _Zen Gardens of the Heart_. It's a romance/gangster crime drama set in 1996 Tokyo, one year after the first King of the Iron First Tournament, whilst Kazuya is in charge of the Zaibatsu. It's not strictly speaking a sequel, but it does have a few nods to this fic in it. It will focus on Jun and Kazuya's relationship, but also features lots more of Chaolan and Kaz like this fic, and Lei Wulong gets a decent look in too. It's also a longer more traditional looking story than this strange short bleak thing you've just read. Please stick around and support me through that fic if you've enjoyed this one! And thanks again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a strange shortish thing (about 9 chapters probably) exploring Kazuya and Chaolan's relationship as brothers and their survival under Heihachi. It's a bleak thing set in 1990 with lots of post-Cold War vibes, has a number of punchy fights in it and an excessive amount of Kazuya glaring at people, but that kinda goes without saying for Tekken.


End file.
